Ferris
by Jonn Wood
Summary: A geek ends up in the XCOM universe. Good News: He's just the Chief Engineer's personal assistant. Bad News: The Chief Engineer is Tony Stark.
1. 01 He's Gotta be Larger than Life

**Arc 01 _Sword_  
>01 He's gotta be larger than life<br>**

**-O-**

Eamon woke up, and looked down.

_Great. He put me in a woman's body this time._

_Also, a helicopter._

He and the dark-haired older man in the seat next to him were the only ones in the compartment, facing aft.

Of course, "older" could be a relative term, until he could find a mirror. From what he could see, he wasn't exactly in a ballet dancer's body. Nope, it was decidedly...feminine. And he was black. Or Indian. Or Native American. Maybe the world he was in this time didn't even have races as he knew them.

His companion tapped him on the shoulder. "Irene, we're five minutes out," he said, in what seemed like a faint New York accent. "You never gave me your last name."

_Starkos._

"Starkos."

The other man seemed to find that amusing. "Weird. Think they put us both on this flight on purpose?"

Eamon blinked.

"Never mind."

The Traveller studied his new friend closely. Obviously fit, neatly trimmed beard, wearing an expensive bomber jacket. No visible briefcase or tablet. But then again, Irene didn't have one either.

Outside the window was an increasingly urbanized area, with a river running through it.

"_Sprechen sie deutsch?_" said the stranger.

Irene smiled. "A little."

Upon landing on a helipad, the two people disembarked, and were met by several stern looking _Bundeswehr_, and two soldiers in body armor with no insignia on it. "Sir?" one called.

Irene's companion raised a hand casually. "Yo."

The soldier offered her hand. "It's a great honor to meet you, sir."

The bearded man met her with a politican's gladhanding. She didn't seem to notice.

"If you and your assistant will follow us, Mr. Stark?"

Stark blinked. "Yep. My assistant."

Wait.

Wait a second.

From this angle, she could just see the pale blue glow of the Arc Reactor in his chest.

Oddly enough, Eamon's first thought was that Tony Stark didn't look a _thing_ like Robert Downey Jr.

The soldier added. "Oh, and welcome to X-COM."

**-/-**

"Mind if I ride shotgun?" Stark said, with a winning smile.

The woman blushed, looked back at her partner, who merely quirked an amused eyebrow. "Uh, sure."

"An SUV?" Eamon asked. "Kinda conspicuous."

"Well," drawled the male soldier, with what sounded like a Northern English accent. "I doubt we'd all fit in a Smart car."

Eamon liked him already.

Stark took the front passenger seat of the SUV, and the Brit sat next to Irene. They pulled out of the parking garage, and she stared out of the mirrored windows as they entered the street. They didn't look much different from folks in a normal American city, down to the guy in shades glancing at their car and playing with his phone.

So, what did Eamon know about X-COM? A video game franchise that had recently gotten a relaunch that a lot of people liked. It involved a top secret project dedicated to fighting an alien invasion, and a whole lot of disposable rookies. His Benefactor clearly hadn't seen fit to give him much more information about the games, though Irene clearly knew a lot more about Engineering than most. And he had seen _Avengers_ before he Left.

Thing was, the Tony Stark in the seat in front of him could be from any point in the films' timeline. The divergence point could be any time after Stark got his arc reactor. Or even before, if the Benefactor had rejiggered the timeline.

They turned into a more residential area. Light industry.

For all he knew, he was in the offscreen opening to a Tony Stark/X-COM/aliens slashfi-

Something flared in a window.

"_Rocket!_"

It impacted short of the front tires, popping them. The car slammed down on the rims, and everyone's head was jerked forward as it came to a halt.

There were a few moments of silence. The engine ticked over.

"Everyone okay?" said the female soldier.

Stark was breathing heavily, staring at the cracked windshield.

"Stark?" The woman slapped him lightly. "Talk to me."

"I-" He cleared his throat. "I- I-"

"He's in shock." The woman frowned.

"We need to call for backup," said the man. "Also, I _told_ you we should bring the tank."

She smiled at him, an instant before red beams speared through the side panel and into his body. The heat cooked the air and fluids inside, causing bubbles to rapidly grow. His left eye popped, and Eamon flinched.

There was a horrible smell of boiled meat.

The female soldier swore. "We need to move. Can you shoot?"

"His weapon's wrecked," Eamon said calmly, surprised at the part of his mind that cut in automatically at times like this.

"There's an SMG under Stark's seat."

The scientist slid the case out, flipped it open. _A Super-V. Very nice. Very expensive. Thank you, Council._ She glanced to her right, at the blank, industrial wall. "Both the rocket and lasers came from the left."

"Yeah, they're probably hiding in one of those houses. Clear rear."

Eamon twisted in her seat. "Clear. I saw a flash, but I don't remember which house it was in."

"Take the gun, and get out. Cover the rear." She yanked what looked like an Epi-Pen from a pouch, and stabbed Stark in the neck. He yelped. Whatever was in there, it was enough to knock someone out of shock. Good to know.

Eamon scrambled out of the door, reached back in for the gun, and felt the beam pass through the place his head had been a second earlier. It had also put a hole in the roof of the car.

"Lasers," someone gasped, right next to her. "Never liked them."

Eamon jumped, and nearly elbowed Stark in the face.

"Don't _do_ that!"

"Why haven't they rocketed us again?"

"Generally, one does the job. Maybe they traveled light."

"This is not a good situation," said the soldier, as she climbed out of the car. "It's only a matter of time before they get the bright idea to aim for the fuel tank, which will either kill us or flush us. And _then_ they'll kill us."

"What's your name?"

"Laura Byler, sir."

"Laura, when is backup going to get here?"

"Five minutes."

"We don't _have_ five minutes."

"That house."

Stark and Byler looked at Irene. "What?"

"They're in _that_ house." She pointed. "Looked at the hole in the room and the mark on the ground. Sniper on the second story. Your rifle still working?"

"Yeah, but - _no_."

"You suppress him, I'll charge."

"You're not a trained soldier. _No_."

"Which is why the _trained soldier_ should guard the VIP."

Another hole punched through the car, and everyone ducked.

"We don't have time for this," Irene growled, and took off for the row of houses. Behind her, Byler swore, and started firing.

The scientist reached an oblique angle to the nearest house, too close for the sniper to hit without exposing themselves, and started running forward. He vaulted over one wall, two, then arrived at the sniper's house just as a figure stepped out of the front door.

Oddly enough, Eamon noted, just before he shoulder-checked them, they seemed to be wearing pinstripes.

The assailant was knocked a few feet, towards the wall. Before they could bring their pistol up, Eamon smashed their wrist between her left knee and the wall, making them drop the gun, then backed off.

"_Stoppen_!" he barked. Was that even the right word in German? Well, someone pointing a gun at you was pretty unmistakable.

The man glared at her with hate in his eyes, and reached for something on his belt. Looked like an Epi-Pen. Irene's eyes widened. "_Wait!_"

The stranger jammed the syringe into his neck, and his eyes rolled back in his head. Foam began to bubble from his lips, and his limbs convulsed -

Eamon looked away.

Who _were_ these people?

Maybe there'd be answers inside.

**-/-**

There were three bodies with bags on their heads, all tied up and shoved against a wall, and a fourth with another syringe in its neck.

One of the bodies was smaller.

Irene stared at the tableau, as the house shook while something massive hovered overhead, as ropes descended past the window, as booted feet ran up the stairs.

"_Stoppen_!" a voice yelled.

The woman raised her head.

"It's-" she swallowed. "It's okay. I'm with you guys."

**-X-**

**Bonnie Tyler - "I need a hero"**

Because I keep having to explain it: **Eamon isn't a self-insert**. He's _very loosely_ based on an Irish friend of mine. Most of all, he's based on what I feel is the standard-issue self-insert fic type. The only parts of me he has is a tendency to make references, a trait I share with Miles Vorkosigian and Harry Dresden.


	2. 02 Masquerading as a Man with a Reason

**02 Masquerading as a man with a reason  
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**-O-  
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The Engineering lab had one of those cool sci-fi doors. The ones with big steel plates the size of a Volkswagen. Probably airtight too. Doubtless specialized parts and higher maintenance costs than a regular door. What was wrong with tho - oh, right, aliens with plasma weapons.

The security camera tracked Irene as she walked in. She gave it a facetious little wave, just to let her observers know she was okay.

Well, better.

"_The family was executed at close range, most likely with a small-calibre laser weapon, like a pistol. Surprised they didn't overpenetrate, but they may have dialable yields. Initially wondered if they were somehow executed all at once by the shotgun downstairs, but I - yes, you'd better take that back, wouldn't want to start stealing from the office the first day on the job, hahaha - but realized that would be too difficult to line up, with the smaller child. Suspect the child and parents were separated, with the assassins using each to ensure the compliance of the other. Yes, I could do with a bit of fresh air. Child may have been killed first, then killers moved into this room and executed parents at the same ti—_"

Then she had vomited all over the front hall.

At this point, someone had quite wisely tranquilized her. She'd woken up on a helicopter full of dour-faced troopers, with a case of bitter, acidic cottonmouth and a medic next to her holding some kind of biometrics monitor. And that was where she stayed until they arrived at the base.

Embarrassing, really. Or maybe not. Eamon had been through a lot of continuities, but he couldn't remember the last time he saw someone executed in cold blood.

Much less a kid.

"Don't worry about it," said the anonymous Scottish trooper who had escorted the engineers to their new workspace. "It hits everyone hard. The first time I saw a body covered in -"

The soldier's earpiece pinged.

"Right," he sighed. "Covered in something that you haven't been cleared for. Yet."

"Do you normally carry tranqs and stims on missions?"

"Useful for panic, ma'am."

"Encounter a lot of freaked-out civvies?"

A smile. "Classified. Call me if you need anything." He reached for something beside the door, and it ground shut. There was another panel on the lab side.

"_Well_," Irene murmured toward her unseen Benefactor. "_A little direction would be nice_."

She turned and found her new boss looking at a computer someone had left on a counter, all prepped and ready for him to login.

Stark stared it, then swept if off the counter.

"Ah," Irene said dryly. "I take it you're a Mac man."

Stark forced a chuckle.

"Want to talk about it?"

Stark cupped his face in his hands. "Sure," he said, muffled. "Why not."

He took a moment to collect his thoughts.

"First I get offered a choice between going home, and officially staying "dead" then going to Germany to join some top-secret alien project." He grimaced. "Aliens. Seriously."

"So why didn't you go home?"

"When...these people give you a choice, it's never really a choice. Anyway, so then I get here, get in a car, then get ambushed. Guy gets killed, and some female scientist who doesn't exactly have a combat chassis - no offense -"

"None taken."

"-Takes care of business while I hide behind a car."

Eamon thought of the smallest body again, forced a smile.

"The business mostly took care of itself. You mean someone did something suicidally stupid to protect you?"

"Yeah. Some who barely knows me." Stark rubbed his eyes wearily. "And it wouldn't be such a big deal if it weren't the second time this month."

"I read your file," Irene said slowly. "Ho Yinsen?"

"No, just Shen. Never gave me his first name. The funny thing is that if we had had a little more time, if we had just a few more seconds, he'd still be alive."

_Wait, what?_

"Wait, _what_?"

"That wasn't in the file?"

Irene shook her head.

"He went all Wrath of Khan buying me time to start up the suit, then I used the suit to get outside, then a team of guys came out of thin air and took down all the Ten Rings. Five more minutes, and they could've stormed the camp and saved him." Tony frowned, staring at nothing. "Why didn't he stick to the plan?"

"Maybe that's not it."

Tony looked at her.

"Maybe they were only successful because you drew the bad guys off, took out their leadership. Maybe if you hadn't done that, they would've held off the attackers long enough for some to run into the cave, and kill you _and_ Shen."

Tony was just staring at her. Not nodding or shaking. Just staring.

"So," Irene prodded. "I assume that's when you were taken to wherever they gave you your choice."

A tight smile. "Yep."

"And they ambushed your convoy..._That's_ why you didn't want to sit in the back."

"Yep. And it got some guy killed. I'm sick and tired of people dying for me."

Irene looked at him, head cocked, eyes narrowed. "Tony...when was the last time you had a drink?"

"Just before the Ten Rings took me."

"And sleep?"

"Does blacking out count?"

The intercom chimed. "_Stark and Starkos to the Director's office_."

"Great. Just what we needed." Tony scrubbed his face with his hand and looked around. "Now, where is it?"

He opened the lab door, to find the soldier who had escorted them about to buzz.

"Ah, good. Lead on, Macduff," Irene said.

"Mcinally, actually."

"Dear me, what are they _teaching_ you Scots these days?"

"We did _Hamlet,_" said Mcinally, and smiled to show he had gotten her reference. They began to walk.

Wait, was she flirting? Was this Eamon flirting, or Irene? How _much_ of Irene? Did he have parts of her mind? Was it her hormones? Did Mac count as being in Irene's Chain of Command? Was fraternization allowed among XCOM members at all? Was it a good idea to get into something when he might well just be passing through? And most importantly, _why was Stark smirking at her like that_?

**-/-**

For an office in a high-tech underground base, the Director's office was remarkably old-school, down to the big, steel, cold-war bomb shelter desk and the safe in the corner.

The Director, however, was not. Mostly because she a woman.

Specifically, a blond, blue-eyed, vaguely Nordic woman, with a strong jaw and broad shoulders. She was also, apparently, in her thirties or so, but Eamon, as a 20-something white Irish geek currently stuck in the body of an attractive, ambiguously brown older American woman, knew looks could be deceiving.

The director stood as Tony came in, and leaned over the desk to shake his and Irene's hands. Introductions were made; the ginger woman in the labcoat was Dr. Moira Vahlen, Research, and the guy in the commando sweater was David Bradford, Assistant Director and Operations Manager. Everyone sat down, except Bradford, who stood at the Director's shoulder.

Left shoulder, not right. He wasn't _literally_ her right-hand man.

"It's nice to meet you, Mr. Stark," said Director Schmidt in an American accent. "We're still in shakedown, so to speak. Ideally, we would've bought you in when we started operations, but recent events have forced our hand. The X-Rays managed to catch us wrong-footed, and we're still scrambling to catch up."

"Which is where I come in."

"_Ja_."

Vahlen piped up. "We've already collected and analyzed several items from our first few missions, and I would appreciate it if you could take a look at our results."

"Okay. So...here's a funny question; why me?"

"Believe it or not, Stark, an alcoholic playboy with self-control issues wasn't our first choice."

"And who would that be?"

"That would be Dr. Richards."

Tony blinked.

"Unfortunately, Dr. Richards has been on an extended mission in space for some time now. Dr. Shen was our second choice, but he died in the attack."

"Wait a second," Irene broke in. "You're saying Shen was your second choice compared to _Reed Richards_?"

"Well, yes. For example, he managed to save Mr. Stark from shrapnel injuries in a cave, with only rudimentary medical facilities."

"So..." Tony said slowly. "You were trying to rescue _him_, not me?"

"Our sister agency was, yes." Schmidt cocked her head. "To be perfectly frank, Stark, until we saw the armor, we had no idea you could be so...effective, when pressed."

Tony passed his hand over his face. "Well, that's...humbling."

Nobody took the straight line.

"Miss Starkos has been assigned as your personal and research assistant, and general dogsbody."

Tony opened his mouth.

"Don't," Irene said.

Tony closed his mouth.

"You'll find the tablet with the orientation booklet on the pillow in your sleeping quarters."

"What, no chocolate?"

"Sorry, I needed a midnight snack. Your escape suit was very impressive. Can you make something like that again?"

Tony blinked. "That took me three months."

A raised eyebrow. "I think we can provide _slightly_ more advanced facilities."

"You want soldiers stomping around in powered armor?"

The Director spread her hands. "Stark, we need every advantage we can get. We're fighting an intergalactic civilization here. We're still trying to figure out why they haven't just dropped a ship on Bangkok or Budapest from orbit."

"Hm. I'll need high-end fabbing and CAD facilities. I mean, really high end. We're talking robots and holograms here."

"They're already on their way. In the meantime, anticipating your next request, we've already installed a bar."

Tony grinned. "_Great_. Doctor...Vahlen, was it? What's our working relationship?"

She seemed a bit taken aback by Tony's sudden attention, but recovered swiftly and pointed at herself. "Research." And at Tony. "Development."

"_Vunderbar_," Tony said, and Vahlen flushed. "So, who were those guys who attacked us, anyway?"

The Director's face tightened, just a fraction. Eamon wasn't sure if anyone else noticed.

"I believe it's an organization called HYDRA, all-caps."

Tony's brow furrowed. "As in..."

"Yes."

"Pardon me," Vahlen said. "But who is HYDRA?"

Bradford seemed to be out of the loop too, from the look on his face.

"They're a World War II Nazi division dedicated to discovering and reverse-engineering advanced technologies, then weaponizing them and using them in world conquest," Irene recited. "What was that phrase?"

"_For every head you cut off, two will take its place,_" the Director murmured. "Their plot to bomb major world cities was shut down by Captain America, and their main base was captured. Their tech was mostly kept on mothballs, until the 60s, when-"

Bradford coughed.

"Oh, yes, clearance. The weaponry your assailants had seems to resemble the tech they had in WWII, and so does the willingness to kill themselves. I'll send the files to you for comparison, Dr. Vahlen, once you've finished with your examination. Mr. Stark is doubtless familiar with it already, since his father was on the project -"

"He was _what_?"

"Ah. You knew about HYDRA, but you didn't...I'll send you the files too."

"Were they attacking me specifically, or just XCOM's new head engineer?"

"That's still being investigated."

"Do they know where this base is?"

"As far as we can tell, no. We're still looking into how they knew what route you were taking."

"What's the cover story for this place?" Irene asked.

"High energy particle research. This facility _was_ originally built for that purpose, partially funded by the German government. It was even hooked into the river for emergency cooling. But then the project ran out of money, and it sat empty for a few years."

"Until it was bought by our bosses."

"Until it was bought by our bosses," the Director confirmed.

"What about fraternization?" asked Tony.

Irene and Vahlen both rolled their eyes.

"The short version; is that in the direct Chain of Command, it's _verboten_. Mr. Stark can't date Miss Starkos, but he could date someone from Research, Ops, Medical, or Procurement."

"I wasn't asking for _myself_."

Irene blushed. Good job, Stark.

"Of course. I was using it entirely as a hypothetical. If that's all, you're dismissed. Mr. Stark, can I have a word with you in private? And Starkos?"

"Yes?"

The Director smiled. "Good work out there."

Irene stood a little straighter as she left.

Tony left the office a minute or two later, looking shaken.

"Are you okay?" Irene asked as they began to walk. One thing about this new body; the hips didn't work the same way. There was a certain..._strut_. Irene was decidedly strutty. Was that just the new anatomy, or was it the muscle memory?

"Uh, yeah." Stark thought for a second. "Irene, do you mind if I flirt with you?

"Yes."

"Crap. Well, uh, I had this thing going with my last assistant where I made jokes about that sort of thing. Helps my process."

"Were you actually interested in her?"

"She never really responded."

That wasn't a no, Stark. "Well, rest assured, I'm not interested in a relationship right now."

Ahead of them, Mcinally stiffened.

"A relationship with you, I mean."

The trooper relaxed. Well, _that_ was going to lead to heartbreak.

When they walked into the lab, where someone had put the ruggedized laptop back on the counter, a voice greeted them.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Stark, Ms. Starkos," said a non-visible British-accented woman.

"Uh...hi. Also, _where are you_?"

"I'm the base control AI," said the speakers in the ceilings. "Joint Operations Control And Systems Technology Administrator."

"JOCASTA?" Irene asked.

"Yes, though I'm not fond of the mythological allusions. I would've preferred something like 'Alien Response, Monitoring, and Operational Response AI', but —" the eyeroll was somehow audible, which was an impressive feat of programming "—no one asked me."

"How about, uh, 'Extraterrestrial Observation and Response Director?'"

"XORD? Do I sound like a twelve-year old? Well, in actual fact, I'm less than a year old, but the point still stands."

"So you're an AI," cut in Tony.

"Yes."

"You're fully sentient."

"Yes."

"Have you ever met _my_ AI, JARVIS?"

An almost-unnoticeable pause. "Mr. Stark, I'm not allowed to have non-vital external communications."

Tony grinned at the security camera. "That's not a no, Jo."

An alarm sounded, and a light on the wall flashed yellow.

Irene blinked. "Should...should we be running?" Wait, the remake didn't have Base Defense, did it? But then again, it didn't have Tony Stark either, so this was clearly a fusion continuity.

"A mission is starting. You can watch it on this TV. By the way, there's a reward for any staff that come up with suggestions that lead to viable improvements."

"Can't miss that," Tony said, straight-faced. "I need the money."

"I think the lasers can wait a while, don't you?" Irene hinted.

"Good idea. Jo, do you do popcorn?"

"Not unless you're planning to build me a robot body, no."

"Oh. So where's that bar?"

**-X-**

**Kansas - "Wayward Son"**  
>Bradford and Vahlen have their first names taken from Arad's "Stardust" XCOMMLP crossover. Incidentally, those are also the names of their voice actors.


	3. 03 We Happy Few

**03 We Happy Few**

**-O-**

**Cologne, Germany**

"Central," said Pena. "I think we've found the recon team."

"What's left of it," muttered Mundy. The marksman shifted his weapon uneasily.

"Stow that, Foster," Bradford said. "How many of them can you see?"

"Just one, Ma'am," said Masumoto. "He appears to be trapped under an overturned police van. Conscious, but there's something wrong with his eyes." She had flicked her flashlight at them to check dilation, to find them bulging and bloodshot, with some sort of dark discharge. He didn't even blink as he reached out to her for help. "Should I heal him?"

"Negative. Eyes open_._"

"Rog-"

"Bradford, Voodoo-One Alpha, be advised, we are picking up a signal on the _Heer_'s standard communications frequencies. It seems to be a cry for help. Triangulating...it's coming from that building from the north, on the other side of the square."

"Roger, Jocasta," said Pena. "Moving up."

**-/-**

"Dunayevsky just found another body in the bus stop," Jocasta said. "It appears to have the same discharge that the other body did. Also-"

"I would've _led_ with the giant hole in his chest," Tony said, "but that's just me."

"Doctor Vahlen has observed that he seems to have been eviscerated from the inside. He also appears to be in an advanced state of decomposition."

"Back up. Did you say he got _Chestburstered_?"

"That's only her preliminary opinion; we'll have to wait until an autopsy is cond —"

"No, don't worry, I'll just start work on a _Pulse Rifle_. Maybe a Smartgun and a Power Loader, just for the heck of it."

"Really?" Irene piped up.

Tony looked like he was about to say something sarcastic. Then he stopped himself and looked thoughtful.

**-/-**

"No contacts visible," Pena said, peering through the windows.

"No contacts visible," Masumoto said, doing the same.

"I see nothing," said Dunayevsky.

"Switching to enhanced optics," Mundy said, and flipped to the secondary scope on his rifle. He pointed his weapon through a broken pane and went very still. "Two contacts."

**-/-**

"There were four men in that recon squad," Jocasta informed them. "So these could be our lost lambs. Or one of them might've picked up a civilian. Or it might be a civilian who found the police's radio. It's best not to jump to conclusions."

"Except for the fact that the second contact seems to be a three-year old with a really bad case of encephalitis," Irene observed.

"Well spotted."

"Can your drone get a better view? Can you lower it?" Tony asked.

"No, there's too much light reflecting off the windows. The windows are also thermally opaque."

"Have you tried using sonics?"

"No one has the technology, and I'm not even sure it would work in this case."

Tony frowned. "I think there was something on this in my company's archives. Remind me to look it up later. What's that green lump on the ground?"

"A person. Those canisters emit some sort of gas that quickly condenses into an extremely tough, fibrous material. It seems to use some variant of carbon nanotubes."

"_Oooh._"

**-/-**

Pena edged the front door of the warehouse open, and Mundy scoped out the left and right sides of the warehouse.

"Two tentative contacts," he whispered. "Hiding behind the shelves, left and right. Primary contact is armed. Shotgun in one hand, and grenade."

"How is he going to pull pin if he is holding shotgun?" mused Dunayevsky. "How is he going to pump shotgun if holding grenade?"

"Quiet," whispered Masumoto. "What's the plan, Sarge?"

"That depends on how good of a shot Mundy is," Pena said.

**-/-**

"Alpha, what are you doing?" Bradford said, in a voice of glacial calm. Several of the other people in Operations, who had heard it before, cringed.

"Springing the trap, Central," replied the Argentinian.

"You do _not_ know what's in that buil—"

"Breaching."

**-/-**

The first idea the red Sectoid had that everything was going wrong was the sound of breaking glass.

On its left, the Lower turned to find itself being confronted by a Japanese woman, who casually kicked away its weapon, and then smacked it in the head with her rifle butt. Then she reached for it, and the red Sectoid winced as it Felt a limb breaking. It winced a second later as the _other_ Lower was introduced to a massive Russian foot that propelled it into a box. It slumped to the ground, and then the boot descended on it again and the Lower was cut off.

Then the flashbang went off right in front of the red Sectoid.

Mind control or no, the German involuntarily raised his hand to shield himself from the blast, and then found himself with empty hands.

"Contact disarmed," growled the Australian man.

"Contact subdued," said the Japanese woman.

The Russian just yelled as he leaped over the boxes, shoulder checking the disarmed German. He swung his LMG towards the last contact, which had decided that discretion was the better part of duty, and vanished into the shadows.

"No contacts," said Pena. "Good job, team."

**-/-**

Bradford was leaning over a table, his hands clenched into fists on it, with knuckles white. Even if he had been looking up, no one would've met his eye.

**-/-**

"Three contacts —"

"I see 'em!" Mundy barked at Jocasta, and proceeded to empty his clip. He managed to slow one of them slightly.

They looked like a cross between a scorpion, a spider, and something that wakes you up at 3AM, screaming.

"One of them seems to be inju—"

Someone fired a shotgun nearby, and Mundy jerked away in surprise at the gout of flame leaping from the barrel.

Pena could've sworn they slowed down. One of the bug-things swung wide, while the one with the injured leg tried heading in the other direction, to get out of the line of fire.

The crippled X-Ray flinched every time Pena fired. He wasn't sure how much damage it was doing, but he hoped it was e—

Its head exploded.

The Argentinian stopped, looked at his shotgun, then turned to look at the Australian behind him, who was just lowering his weapon.

"You owe me a beer," he called.

The wall of the warehouse exploded, flinging bits of dead alien into the street.

**-/-**

Dunayevsky dropped his spent RPG tube as he moved to assist Masumoto. He brought his LMG up, and aimed over the head of the new, buglike X-Ray that had ambushed her. It had come through the window, ironically. She was giving a good account of herself, judging by the noise, but those were pistol shots, not rifle, which meant she had been disarmed—

_That's right, _suka_, look at Papa_.

The new contact scurried backwards, out of the line of fire. Which, in turn, exposed it to fire from Mundy and Pena, who had rounded the corner of the shelves. The latter had switched back to his assault rifle, and they had the X-Ray in a crossfire.

"Clear!" Pena called a few seconds later, raising a clenched fist. "_Esta bien_?"

"What?" said Mundy.

"I said, everyone all right?"

"_What_?"

"Why are you yelling?" asked Dunayevsky.

"What?" said Pena.

"_Why are you yelling_?"

"Because _someone_ shot a rocket at a wall a few feet from us!"

"_What_?" said Mundy.

Aside from the ringing in their ears, they were pretty much okay.

Masumoto, not so much.

The Japanese woman just went _click-click_ as she pulled at the trigger of her empty pistol, staring at nothing, eyes wide. She didn't even seem to notice the cuts in her armor, the gashes on her arms and legs and torso.

Dunayevsky gently wrapped his arms around her from behind, and pried the gun away. With the other hand, he plucked a syringe from her belt, and applied it to her neck. She slumped forward, and he caught her and gently lowered her to the ground, as he murmured something in Russian.

"Sasha? What'd you just say to her?"

The big man cleared his throat, embarrassed. "_Sleep, little one_." He stood, with his weapon, ran a hand over his shaven head, and the three men stared at the corpse in front of them.

Mundy said it first. "What the _f-_"

**-/-**

The red Sectoid slunk through the offices at the front of the building, fuming. _How? How had the human warriors managed to reverse the ambush so effectively?_

It pushed its way through the front doors, and was promptly shot.

It fell to the ground.

Then it was shot again.

_How—?_ it thought, through the pain. Then everything went black.

"Central, Voodoo-Two Bravo. Bagged your runner," said the woman. "This is a new one. Think we'll get a bonus?"

"Hmm," said her comrade, tapping his chin thoughtfully. "One the one hand, bonus. On the other, Pena is not going to stop whining about us stealing his kill for _weeks_."

The first trooper shrugged. "Sucks to be him."

**-/-**

"And that's it. All over but the shouting. We've no more hostiles in the AO. Unless they have invisible aliens, which I _highly_ doubt."

Both engineers were silent.

Chrysalids looked a lot scarier up close. Or, more accurately, on camera. They were so _quick_—

(_their little legs were fast_)

—and they came out of _nowhere_—

"It can be a lot to take in, I know. You may be still processing it."

It was wrong, it was all _wrong_, there weren't supposed to be bugs in the tutorial mission, they weren't supposed to have 6 men in a squad, they weren't supposed to actually catch the Sectoid Commander, this was supposed to be their first mission.

A nasty little voice at the back of Eamon's head asked why he had thought XCOM wouldn't load up their Skyrangers to the max outside of gameplay reasons, why they couldn't use fastropes and misdirecton and flanking maneuvers, if he thought humans and x-rays didn't have free will. _What _were_ you expecting, Eamon? Did you think it was going to be turn based? Did you think they'd move on a _grid_?_

Irene finally thought of something to say.

"Those...those weren't standard tactics."

"Well...we've found that this isn't a war ordinary tactics can win."

"Ah. But even then..."

"Yeah, I noticed. They'll doubtless be dressed down by Bradford, maybe even the Director herself. When Dunayevsky gets asked how he even got an RPG-7 onto the base, he'll probably shrug and say that he 'knows a guy'." She sighed. "Sometimes I wonder if they didn't send us their best soldiers, just the ones they wanted to get rid of."

Beat.

"Going with the chestburster theory, that means these things came out of—" Irene couldn't finish saying it.

"Yes."

"So if one came out of the soldier trapped under the van, and they're based on human bodies..."

"That would explain why it was crippled, I agree," Jocasta said thoughtfully. "We've never seen those things before. Or the red one. They're stepping up."

Tony raised his hand. "I have a question. Do you know how tall the soldiers are?"

**-/-**

Several hours later, after an exhausting attempt at keeping up with Tony Stark in full brainstorm mode, Eamon finally found her bedroom.

The door was a heavy hatch, and all-in-all, it seemed rather spartan. The only thing there was Irene's luggage, and some toiletries no doubt grudgingly supplied out of XCOM's multi-billion dollar budget. Still, it was better than a bunk and a locker.

Ah, the perks of the job.

Eamon finally got a look at herself in the bedroom mirror, after stripping to his undies.

Turned out that he was _really hot_. No wonder Mcinally's tongue had almost been hanging out of his mouth.

He turned around to get a look at Irene's backside—purely for curiousity's sake, of course—and was struck by the fact that his Benefactor made him a MILF hanging out with Tony Stark. Thank goodness the Director pre-emptively cut him off at the knees. And thanks to whoever wrote the fraternizing regs.

After a quick scrub, Eamon turned to his bed and pulled back the covers, where he found a tablet, presumably with the orientation booklet loaded, on the pillow.

Next to a chocolate.

It came in handy when he was staring at the ceiling at 3AM.

**-X-**

**Enemy Unknown Achievements, referencing _Henry V_**


	4. 04 Questions of science

It didn't take three months.

It took them two weeks.

**-O-**

**04 Questions of science, science and progress**

**-/-**

Mundy liked to watch nature documentaries, and Bradford's pacing around his office reminded him of something with good vision that flew high in the sky and hunted small furry animals. As one of the metaphorical small furry animals, he and the other two squaddies had been harried by said predator for ten solid minutes.

Felt like days.

"Sergeant, what was your thought process at..._this_ point?" Bradford's accusing finger stabbed at the display in his office. "Please, enlighten the class."

"It got the job done," Pena retorted stiffly."Now we know the _bichos_ don't like fire."

"That's not the point. Do you have any idea what sort of tactics we could've employed if we knew your second tube was loaded with Dragon's Breath?"

"Well—"

"_No_, you _don't_, because that's _my_ job!" Bradford pinched the bridge of his nose. "I can't do my job if I don't know what my squad's capabilities are. And I can't do that if you go off on crazy plans that end up with one of your teammates _poisoned_ and _traumatized_ in the infirmary!"

"And with two new aliens for autopsy. Plus a plasma pistol," Dunayevsky muttered.

The Assistant Director rounded on him. "And _you_," he said. "Leaving aside the whole 'firing an RPG in the direction of your squadmates without so much as a "look out!"' thing; pop quiz. What's the standard XCOM rocket launcher?"

"Carl Gustav".

"Right you are, Sasha! Now, for all the rubles, what sort of rocket launcher did you use on the mission?"

"Ah..."

"What's that? Having trouble remembering? Well, let me refresh your memory." He picked up something from the corner of the room, and held it under Dunayevsky's nose. "Hm? _This_ ring any bells?"

Despite having not moved a muscle, the big guy was cringing. In an appropriately military fashion.

"Bzzt! Time's up, Dunayevsky!" Bradford dropped the spent rocket tube at the soldier's feet. "It is an _Arr-Pee-Gee_-Seven! Now, I can't help but wonder not only what you were doing with this weapon, but _how you got it onto this base in the first place_!"

The Russian shrugged. "I know a guy," he said, not meeting his superior's eyes.

Bradford looked at the soldier's rather obvious prison tattoos, and sighed.

Mundy made the mistake of snickering.

"Mr. Mundy?" said his CO, "care to inform the class why you went along with Mr. Pena's ill-considered plan?"

"Sir, you don't question the leader on the ground, sir!"

"You don't...question..." Bradford's mouth moved silently for a few seconds.

Then, with a gleam in his eyes, the hawk swooped in for the kill.

**-/-**

The Director _had_ to have heard her coming. It wasn't like the golf carts were quiet. But she displayed no reaction until Vahlen pulled up beside her.

"Good morning, Director."

"Good morning, Doctor."

Vahlen carefully sought the amount of throttle that would allow her to keep pace with her boss. She glanced at Schmidt's toned muscles, and felt a twinge of guilt over her own thickening thighs. Then again, Rao had mentioned that the American was the fittest person she had ever seen, and according to the troops' scuttlebutt, her physical times were some of the best on the base.

And if some of the most elite soldiers in the world were unable to beat her, why should a mere scientist?

Still, maybe she should get out of the lab more.

"Doctor?"

"Ah, yes. I must respectfully ask you to reconsider your funding for -"

"No."

Vahlen faltered.

The blonde seemed to realize that she had been overly blunt, and grimaced slightly as they passed the memorial wall. Someone had rigged up a tablet with a database on the fallen soldiers. It had already been replaced once due to a high-speed collision with the Wall.

"Doctor, you've had free run of our R&D budget up until now. Now we have a chance to get some D done, and you're begrudging Stark his slice of the pie. We can't afford to waste resources, or take soldiers off the field. And besides, can't you and your team write academic papers already? This won't be classified forever."

"We could be on the verge of the next leap in human evolution!" Vahlen sputtered.

"Then we had better tread carefully, lest it turn out to be off a cliff. Doctor, we simply don't know if your testing chamber is worth investing in."

"You've read the papers I sent to you?"

"Yes, I have. We know this 'Xavier gene' exists. What we don't know is whether it can give people psychic powers, even assuming that the abilities of the 'Sectoid Commander' can be reproduced reliably in humans."

"But Xavier himself -"

"- May have been a complete charlatan, backing up his claims with some plausible-sounding nonsense about genetics. Maybe he was a one-off. No one's been able to reproduce his results in the fifty years since he died, Moira. Not since before you were born."

"But -"

"I looked up some of the reports myself, Doctor. His 'X-Men' didn't demonstrate anything that couldn't be explained by regular genetic mutations, albeit unusual ones. Or more tricks. But, for the sake of argument, let's assume you're right."

Moira blinked. "Really?"

"Really. Can you look me in the eye and tell me that it'll be cost effective? That we won't spend millions and just get one psychic trooper who can bend spoons?"

"I..." The scientist was now _really_ looking forward to the dissection awaiting her in her lab, just by way of stress relief. "If your Golden Boy is so 'cost-effective', why doesn't _he_ pitch in? Why isn't he contributing some of _his_ own resources?"

Schmidt gave her a long, calm look. "One, do you realize you said that in German? Two, it's kind of hard to get at your money when you're legally dead. Three, _he did_."

Moira Vahlen suddenly felt very small. "Oh."

**-/-**

"Who are you and what are you doing here?"

Agent Barton turned around, very slowly. He had heard Potts coming down the stairs, but he hadn't wanted to spook her.

"Nice house you have here," he said, gesturing with his good arm.

Confusion on her face. He could work with that.

"Thanks," she said, not lowering the Apogee Award. "Now, tell me who you are bef—"

"I'm with SHIELD," he said, destroying her conversational momentum. He wasn't as good as his partner at this social engineering stuff, but he'd picked up a few tricks. "We're here to pick up some of Mr. Stark's items."

"What happened to Coulson?"

"He's on another assignment."

_Now_ Potts lowered the Award and pointed at his sling. "What happened to _you_?"

Barton blinked.

"Someone winged me. I volunteered for this assignment, since I was off the roster anyway."

The redhead nodded, brow still furrowed. "I don't understand. Why do you suddenly need Tony's stuff _now_? The legal stuff is all done, I'm -" she looked around at her new living room, the one with a beautiful view of the Pacific "- I'm in a new tax bracket, Stane's running Stark Industries -"

"The guy who sent me said to tell you 'steam shovel'."

The Award hit the ground with a soft thump.

Barton had seen it before. Their mouths open, their limbs lose strength, and they sit down on the nearest chair or sofa.

Potts sat down on the nearest sofa. Which happened to be really expensive. And, unlike most expensive sofas, quite comfortable. Only the best for Tony Stark (legally deceased).

"What-?" she began. "_How?_" Then she hugged a pillow and began to cry.

"He also said 'sorry, honey, I won't make it home for dinner'."

Potts laughed through her tears. "After — _heh_ — all that work I put into making his supper." Beat. "His pizza will get cold."

The agent sniffed. "Smells like pepperoni."

Pepper gave another one of those weird giggle-sobs.

It was somewhat awkward for Barton. The last time he had been in the presence of a crying redhead, she'd proceeded to dislocate someone's arm. And she hadn't been laughing at the time. Except maybe on the inside.

"So...I guess I'll just leave you alone now."

"Wait." Pepper took a deep breath. "Tell him to hurry home. I hear Stane's driving everyone _crazy_."

"Really? We're going to swing by the office later. I'll have a chat with him."

"You don't have to -"

"Oh," said Barton, with an oddly predatory grin, "I insist."

**-/-**

Eamon had never been killed, though he had failed before, and come pretty close. But here, he didn't even have a clear objective. Nothing from the Benefactor. No vision, voice from on high, or implanted knowledge. Would it have killed them to shoot him an email?

_It may be that the only purpose of your life is to serve as a warning to others_.

Comforting thought.

Progress was faster than it had been in the film, since the team had both the intact Mark 1 and Tony's notes. Also, instead of Tony and Stark Industries scientists working separately, they were working together. And third -

_"It's not a full suit," Tony had explained._

_Schmidt had blinked. "Explain."_

_"It's a powered exoskeleton. Made to enhance mobility and endurance," Irene had clarified._

_"But not protection?" And the Director's rigatoni had resumed its journey to her month._

_"That's the second half of the programme. We have a nanofiber and spider-silk underlayer in development."_

_"I think this is the part where I ask 'under _what_?'"_

_Tony had flashed his salesman smile. "Ablative armor. Vests, wristbands, those shinguard things."_

_"Vambraces and greaves, Tony. That's all we could figure out how to articulate overnight without sacrificing mobility."_

_"The escape suit handled like a tank. I'm trying to make armor that handles, well, not like a sports car, maybe more like a mountain bike."_

_"More like a street bike."_

_"No, I'm pretty sure it's a mountain bike -"_

_"I approve," Schmidt had said._

_A pair of "What?"s._

_"I approve. SUNDAY BEST is go. And the gun and visor you were working on too."_

_"What - how'd you even -"_

_A ghost of a smile. "You'd better grab some lunch before meeting your team."_

_The other two had nodded. And then, in perfect unison, gone "What?"_

One of the dozen new engineers, some guy named Singh, was from Caltech. Tony, being an MIT man, had been eying him warily, and he'd been returning the favor. Irene had already declared herself a neutral territory in the incipient prank war, but nonetheless feared becoming collateral damage due to her proximity to Tony. Other engineers were carefully making sure their equipment was waterproofed. The lab remained locked in a state of detente.

And then there was the paperwork.

Tony wasn't good at paperwork.

He seemed to regard Irene as a substitute Pepper in that regard. Jo had been helping her juggle both hats, and was taking up most of the administrative slack.

The head of Procurement was a Scot, which Eamon thought a little cliched, and a thirty-something redhead, which was less so. She had taken issue with Tony commandeering the equipment in the hangar, and over his _absurd_ requests, and had no idea how he managed to talk the director into this, this -

The playboy, against all prior evidence, was somehow managing to keep his mouth shut. Irene, for her part, was looking at a bearded, dark-haired man from the Stark family being harangued by a furious ginger Scotswoman and fighting not to go "_you know nothin', Jon Snow_".

Fletcher finally finished her tirade and walked off, still muttering to herself.

"Well," Tony commented, once she was safely out of earshot, "_that_ was invigorating." He turned to Irene. "Dr. Singh, medicine woman, finally approved the biometrics setup and auto-calibrate. She said she'll be monitoring it from Medical."

Eamon wondered whether calling Kavita Rao that was technically racist. It wasn't like her opinion of Tony - or anyone - was much more charitable. As opposed to Fletcher, who only got upset for things like nigh-impossible requests from spoiled rich billionaires.

Both of Rao's concerns had been the ideas of The Team. The biometrics were obvious. And for flexibility's sake, the rigs weren't keyed to specific operators. Every user had their own profile, and the suit automatically adjusted to it. Once it hooked into the link points on their underlayer, the soldier was fully operational.

Though Eamon expected a certain amount of kvetching about seats being moved.

"So," asked Jo, "what are you calling this thing?"

Tony thought for a second.

"Well, since this is a product of project SUNDAY BEST - seriously, who chooses these names? - and another term for Sunday is 'Sabbath', and I like Black Sabbath, I think we should call it -"

"_War Pig_?" Irene volunteered, looking as innocent as she could contrive..

"Uh, no."

"_Die Young_? _Electric Funeral_? _Supernaut_?"

"Actually, I was going to go with —"

"HERAKLES Light Assist Armature, Mark 1" Jo said.

"What?"

"Just came down from the director. Actually, since you're on the same floor, I guess you could say it came sideways."

"And you couldn't have told me earlier?"

"I did. In the paperwork."

"_Irene_ does the paperwork."

"Whoops, did I forget to mention that? But don't worry, you can call the next one _Wrathchild_."

"That's _Iron Maiden_!"

Ah, the perks of the job.

**-/-**

Dieter had a ferocious headache.

He stared up at the hospital room ceiling. Listening to the hundreds of little noises of the night. The beeping of the monitors. The faint hum-rattle of the HVAC. Shoes and wheels squeaking on polished floors.

It wasn't even that it hurt that much. He had been _shot_ before. It was the reminder. He had let that _thing_ into his mind, let it work his body like a puppet, move his lips like it had a hand jammed up his -

He frowned as he heard low conversation, two thumps. That was new.

And tomorrow...tomorrow they would debrief him. And then he would never put on a uniform again.

The door opened, and in walked a nurse with a clipboard. She didn't turn on the lights. "Sergeant? Your file says you've been having trouble with headaches." She pulled a syringe from her pocket. "I've got something for that."

Dieter shrugged, as best as he could, and reached for his remote.

"Oh no, don't get up." She did something to the IV, something that soothed his muscles and introduced a welcome haze into his mind. "I know you are only here for observation. They say you must have been very brave."

She sat down by his bed, and the soldier noted her rather shapely body. He wondered what the odds were that he'd meet a woman exactly his type, who was interested in a soldier, just as he was about to get fired.

"Can you tell me about it?"

He was planning to say "that's classified", but it somehow came out "why not?"

He took a second to compose his thoughts. And then another. And then he giggled as he said "I was mind-controlled by an alien."

The nurse was silent, then "what was it like?"

"Purple. I remember a lot of purple," Dieter said solemnly, then giggled again. "There were also these images...ideas. Not exactly ideas, more like...have you ever had a thought, then forgot it, then its ghost remained?"

The nurse went very still, then got up and crossed to the IV again. She sure liked fiddling with it. "You're sure you got only ghosts?"

He nodded. "Mmm-hm."

"I see. Well, Sergeant, you had better get some rest."

Sure, sleep seemed like a good idea. "Night."

"Good night."

As the woman left the room, she stepped over the bodies of the two guards. She pulled a cell phone out of her pocket as she walked briskly toward the stairwell.

"He's done. Only fragments. Nothing worthwhile."

Behind her, an alarm went off at the nurse's station.

"Hail HYDRA."

**-/-**

So.

Who _was_ Irene Starkos?

XCOM's Internet access, as one might expect of a top-secret organization, was heavily restricted, filtered by Jo for any identifying material, and if someone traced their IP addresses, they'd appear to be originating out of Calcutta. Then Brisbane. Then London. England _and_ Ontario.

_I will lead them on a merry chase..._

Okay...so how was he going to do this?

Eamon put his fingers on the home keys, and let muscle memory and regular memory take over, just like it had when he gave Tony his name.

Facebook said she had been a university lecturer for a decade or so, then Irene Starkos (MEng) had been working on a engineering concept for some fancy-sounding topic that Eamon didn't recognize. But if he concentrated, Irene did, though, and _she_ remembered many, many sleepless nights working on it. More than a few headaches and tears.

Much like working with Tony, in fact.

He had a quick scan of her purchases on Amazon.

_The Color of Water_, _American Apartheid_,a few books on Greek Cooking (that, if Eamon's own attempts at Irish cooking were any indication, were doubtless propping up a bookshelf somewhere), _Cosmos_ Box Set, _To Engineer is Human_, a few Discworld books, some Asimov, a whole shedload of Patterson, one or two Nikki Heat novels, nothing spectacular.

A little chat window popped up.

_Jo: feeling homesick?_

Oh, she had _no_ idea.

Eamon asked Jo to punch up Irene's family on Facebook. She even did it in tabs.

_thx_, he typed._  
><em>

So...mother, father, sister...no brother. A bit of diligent searching on some ancestry websites, and Irene learned she was "Chindian" on mum's side, and Black/Greek on dad's. Stick "gay" in there, and she'd be a one-woman affirmative-action quota, wouldn't she?

Speaking of which, did Irene have any boyfriends? Her profile said "Not in a relationship". Eamon checked her tagged photos. There were several with men, some of them with kissing or cuddling, and then he found one from a few years back with Irene cheek to cheek with another woman, arms around each other's shoulders. "My baby and me—"

Oh.

Oh, of _course_.

If Eamon _ever_ met the entity who kept writing him into these sorts of situations, he was going to _punch them in the face_.

**-/-**

The door to the lab opened.

"Laura!" Irene said as she rose. "Come _in_! How are you?"

"Fine, thanks," said the trooper, stepping into Development and looking around. "Actually, I came to see how _you_ were doing." She gestured at the mostly-empty lab. "Where is everyone?"

"Lunch. They're trying to iron out the kinks in the flight module."

"You're making us muscle suits that can _fly_?"

"Well, no, not yet, because, y'know, kinks." Why was she babbling? "Actually, Tony tried a kitbashed rig in the hangar just before lunch. But he used too much power and -"

"- Went bouncing off the side of a Skyranger." Laura smiled. "The aircrew's been talking about it, but they assumed that was just Stark being Stark."

"Ah, right, I forgot that the fastest things in the universe are the speed of light -"

"- And military gossip." Laura finished. "So, what else you been up to?"

"Better living through technology," Irene quipped. "Specifically, robots."

Dummy chose that point to roll up and offer his manipulator to Laura, who shook it solemnly.

"You're the robot Stark built, right?"

"When he was a kid, yeah." Irene leaned back against the counter, stretched. "I hear he was pretty lonely."

Dummy nodded.

"Most people just get a dog. So...what does he do, exactly?"

"Look cute and be a mascot. Say, after lunch, they're sim-testing the Herakles on the Playground. Want me to see if I can get you on the list?"

Laura's eyes lit up. "_Really_?"

Irene nodded. "Really. Actually, some of us actually tried it ourselves, just for laughs. Wanna see?"

The trooper grinned. "_Yes_. Did you try?"

"No. Not with -" she looked down "- this figure."

Laura gave her a sidelong look. "I think it's a very nice figure," she said, softly.

The engineer cleared her throat. "So, ah, I'll go get the popcorn."

During the feature presentation, the American stood, perhaps, a tad too close to fit in the bounds of recent introduction. Irene snuck a look at Laura's figure while she was laughing at one of the world's smartest people running full-tilt into a tree. Not ba -

Wait just a _second_.

If Eamon _ever_ met the entity who kept writing him into these sorts of situations, he was going to punch them in the face_ twice_.

**-X-**

**Coldplay - "The Scientist"**

I swear, the "Pepperoni" thing was random. I had completely forgotten it was the name for the Pepper/Tony ship.

In-canon, Tony and the Stark Industries scientists each took a few months or so to make their respective IM suits. Imagine what would happen if Tony and scientists of comparable quality worked together. Why, they could whip out a basic rig in a week or two!


	5. 05 Take this thing into overtime

**05 Take this thing into overtime**

**-O-**

For a high-tech aircraft capable of hitting Mach 4, the XC-94 Skyranger was pretty quiet.

The operation involved a private space launch facility that had been attacked by unknown forces. This wouldn't be their bailiwick, except for the minor fact that the satellite they were about to launch was being sent up by the Council, to monitor alien activity. The private security firm on the ground was reporting assault from humans with laser weapons. No prizes for guessing who the number one suspects were.

Their objective was to secure the facility and prevent damage to the satellite. Saving the launch facilities was a second priority. Saving personnel was a distant third.

Laura examined the new iron.

The Chimera was an experimental staggered-emitter array rifle, not unlike one of those Metal Storm guns. Except, of course, with lasers.

Last time Laura had heard, laser weapons were still at the anti-vehicle level, and they were bad even at that. She wasn't sure about holding a ripoff version of the same type of weapon that killed her partner.

Well, not entirely a ripoff.

The American tapped a control, and the ten emitters on the front of the weapon, arranged in two vertical rows, flipped to the horizontal. One trigger pull, and just about any unarmored human and many armoured ones would be getting a real bad sunburn. Of course, the individual emitters got less power than in semi-auto or burst, and it ate up power and built heat like crazy, but it seemed like a good tradeoff for some close-range firepower.

She cranked it out of shotgun mode, holstered the Mutt on her back hardpoint, and pulled her regular AR for a once-over.

Sargeant Elise "Shrimp" Okoye was tall, deceptively willowy, and biracial. Laura would've wondered if the drumbeat the South African was absently tapping out on her weapon was some sort of traditional battle music or something, if she hadn't recognized Rammstein.

Pausing in her drum solo, Shrimp said "Hey, Corp, why does Byler get to play with the new toys and not us?"

"Everyone has the BASILISK visors," Laura began, "not to mention -"

"Gee, Sarge, I dunno," said Corporal "Viking" Nillssen. The blond Swede stroked his long, braided beard theatrically. "Maybe because she's dating Lady?"

Laura began to sputter.

"Good point," chimed in Daniel "Shiny" Levin, formerly of Shin Bet. "You know what they say; experimental laser weapons are a girl's best friend."

Laura Byler, who had faced gunfire, laser fire, and plasma fire without a flinch, blushed. "Sh - shut up! We're not - Besides, how do you explain Mac?"

Macinally looked up from his final checks of his Assault/Designated Marksman Rifle hybrid, so hot off the forges it didn't even have a code name yet. The troops mainly fell into two camps; "Ra" or "Doomer". Laura had twenty American on "Chiron".

"I dunno," Shrimp said innocently. "Maybe she likes to share."

"Just so you know, _I hate you all_."

"What did _I_ do?" Mac protested.

"Let them get away with it."

"Get _away_? I thought they were making suggestions."

The team laughed. Laura blushed even harder, and glared at Shrimp. A squad leader was _supposed_ to be more professional, she was supposed to -

Get Hotel operating as a unit, and that included increasing camaraderie, and keeping them from being nervous. _Man_, she was smooth.

Laura, looked down, tapped her chestblate, wondered, not for the first time, how usefull the strips of armor would be in real combat. There was an aperture in its center, part of the flight system that the armor didn't actually have. The emitter had been intended to work as a vertical thruster, but since they were still working out the kinks, it stayed irised shut.

Though the aperture being in the shape of an X was funny.

The suit felt surprisingly natural on her, even with actuators strapped to her limbs. Even the gloves were reinforced, and -

"Thirty seconds to drop," the pilot called.

Okoye pulled up the drone footage of the area on her tablet, and, with a few taps, designated the drop zones for Alpha and Bravo. Stowing the computer, she stood - Shrimp was not a short woman - grasped the strap on the ceiling, and shouted "_Tangos check in!_"

The team finished the cant; "_But they don't check out!_"

And thus began Operation GLASS ENGINE.

**-/-**

Alpha ran past the scorched bodies of security personnel.

From the drone, it all looked clean, simple. Two sets of black SUVs, arranged in rough defensive lines, bracketed at the end closer to the launch pad with two large petrol tanks. A ways past that was the employee garage, which was Bravo's first waypoint, from which they could check out the tower which marked the third point of the obtuse triangle.

The drone image didn't smell like cooked pork.

Mac outpaced both the Swede and the African easily. He was crouching against one of the cars on the friendly side of the skirmish when they arrived. "What took you so long?"

"Hey," said someone from the next SUV over, making all three soldiers jump. Had he _teleported_ there? "Wilson, Aegis International," gasped the merc. "Who are you?"

"Classified."

"Must be Italian. I'm going to need to see some identification."

The heavily armed soldiers just stared at him.

"Just kidding."

Viking stared at his many burns. "Don't you...don't you want to get something on that?" His hand reached toward his medkit.

Wilson grinned. "_Tis but a flesh wound!_"

"Monty Python. _Now?_"

"I fart in their general direction." The grin slipped. "Sorry. Helps me say sane."

"Are you sure it's working?"

"Most of my team barricaded themselves in the office, with the civvies. The rest of us...well..." He grimaced. "You're looking at the rest of the rest of us."

"I'm sorry."

"Why? Did _you_ shoot them?" And the grin was back.

"Wait," Shrimp chimed in. "They were trying to kill you when we showed up? Just you?"

Wilson looked puzzled. "Well, yeah. On account of everyone else being dead."

"You lot _have_ noticed that he's holding a laser weapon, right?" Jocasta pointed out.

Bravo collectively blinked.

"Which he presumably took from one of the HYDRA forces? In fact...yep, according to the Aegis personnel records, he's assistant security chief for that entire facility, and their standard loadout is just handguns. Don't underestimate him."

"So where's _the_ chief?" Bradford asked.

"Bermuda. Conveniently enough."

"Think he's in on it?" Mac mused, under his breath.

"That's not our wheelhouses, people," Central chided, somewhat hypocritically.

"Is that your overwatch?" The mercenary turned and waved at the drone. "Can it get eyes on these guys?"

Wilson's phone rang.

"Y'ello? Yeah, this is kind of a bad ti - oh. Mm I'm? Oh, okay. Got it." He hung up. "Your boss just told me to shut up, and for you to test out the Pinger."

"Oh, good." Mac reached for his belt, hit a switch, then activated the AR article that only existed behind his glasses and the sensors in his gloves. "Pinging."

An ultrasonic tingle ran through the bones of all four people present.

"For that deep-down _clean_ feeling," Wilson muttered.

"Quiet," Mac hissed, waiting for the data to make its round trip from Jocasta. Encoding, sending to the 'Ranger, transmitting to base, processing, sending back to the 'Ranger, back to him...

The Augmented Reality overlay showed him the silhouettes of two people hiding behind one car, and a third hiding behind another. The drone corroborated the ping, and the Scot relayed the information to the team.

"I think..." he began, squinting in the Texan sunlight, "that I can get the fuel tank on the car next to the larger group."

"Do it," Shrimp ordered.

Mac leaned out, holding down the trigger so the rifle could build up the maximum charge while he lined up the shot. According to the overlay, keeping it charged drained the battery. Good to know.

The first shot pierced the tank easily. The second and third ignited the petrol. And then -

"And _boom_ goes the dynamite!"

"Wilson, _shut up_!"

**-/-**

Bravo stacked up on the door to the garage, the rookie behind Laura, Shiny on the far side. Said rookie had been silent on the bus, and spent most of it tapping a nervous drumbeat on the grip of her weapon.

The Israeli reached for the handle of the door, and waited for the other two. Kristin Arnadottir squeezed the American's shoulder, Irene nodded, and they swept the room.

Kristin Arnadottir was a cop, from Iceland, and so fresh off the bus she didn't even have a nickname yet.

Of course, neither did Laura.

All three soldiers called "Clear!" as they finished their sweep. The older two lowered their weapons, and after a few seconds, the rook lowered hers as well." _Tap tap-tap_.

She had _freckles_.

"Hey," said Shiny, giving the rookie a reassuring, movie-star smile. "What's wrong?"

"The gasoline," Arnadottir said, pointing to the puddles on the floor.

"The guards hit a fuel tank or two while they were pulling back to the office." The fireteam leader nodded at the shuttered office door. "It's no problem. Are you any good as a spotter?"

"I'm - I _was_ a police officer!"

"So, no. We try to cross-train around here." Levin slung his assault rifle and pulled out his new toy, the Orion Variable Threat Rifle. The boys and girls in uniform were already trying to figure out a cutesy belt-related nickname. "No time like the present."

"You guys go, I want to check something out. I'm right behind you."

They looked askance at Laura, but they went.

So, what was bugging her?

The cars were parked in their places, except for the ones that had been interrupted pulling in. A few fallen guards. No one had left their engine running. No sparks, so there was no chance of a fi -

Oh.

The puddles.

Some of the tracks were the booted feet of XCOM. One set was hers, from the muscle suit. Some were presumably from the guards, or HYDRA. And one set was a large, triangular section followed by a smaller dot.

High heels.

Someone had been through the garage after the firefight.

"Bravo Lead," Laura murmured, "soft contact."

**-/-**

Macinally's charge pushed the SUV back a few feet, knocking over the Tango who was using it for cover. This was promptly followed by a flashbang rolled under the vehicle. By the time the terrorist recovered his senses, he was staring down at the barrel of a gun that looked very big from that angle.

"Central," Mac said, "we need to start carrying safety cuffs."

"Noted."

"Please remind Malibu that we just need safety cuffs, not something that takes twenty minutes and an instruction manual." Mac rolled the soldier over onto his front, and bound his hands with his own webbing belt.

The other troops on the line chuckled.

"Malib - oh. I'll be sure to tell Stark, who's probably watching you anyway."

"Is the drone getting my good side?"

Jocasta spoke. "Be advised, I can't break into the security systems."

"You mean they're that good?" Viking asked.

"I mean someone beat me to it. Smile, you're on Candid Camera."

"All Hotel elements," Okoye ordered. "Cover your faces best as you can. Though this may be a case of guarding the house after the thief has left."

"Oh, that's not the only good news. Getting into the systems required physical access."

"Wilson, did any of these men go near the office?"

"Some of them were in the garage, but they never made it into the office itself, much less patched into the systems."

-/-

"Roger," said Levin. "Need help?"

"I got it," Laura replied. "Searching."

"Tangos appear to have some kind of explosives," Arnadottir reported.

"_What?_" said Central.

"They're going to try and blow the fuel tank."

"But the tank's empty!" Wilson broke in. "The launch was scrubbed automatically when we came under attack from nutjobs with lasers. These people, I tell ya, no work ethic."

"Does the computer know that?" Shrimp asked. "Because if the nozzle's in the tank, all they need to do is start pumping."

"Wait a second." Viking frowned. "If this is launch day, where are the cameras?"

"Spaceflight isn't as...sexy as it used to be," Wilson admitted. "Actually, we thought these guys _were_ the press. Passes checked out and everything. Even had cameras, a van, the whole nine ya -"

"_Alpha element,_" Jocasta suddenly barked. "_Large contact, rounding the fuel tanks! Enemy unknown!_"

Then the HYDRA Heavy Support trooper appeared, leveled his Squad Laser Automatic Weapon, and proceeded to dispense crimson fire.

**-/-**

"Stay on-task, Bravo," Central ordered. "Alpha can handle it."

"Roger," Shiny said, grudgingly. It had been the take from his team's guncams and visors that had let Jo notice the enemy contact just before he moved out of sight. He didn't appreciate being left out of the -

He took a deep breath, refocused.

"Kris, range to Tangos on tower."

**-/-**

Laura grabbed the handle of a car door, and pulled it open, to find -

A screaming, hysterical woman, going _pleasedon'tshootpleasenoplease_.

"Calm down!" Laura yelled. "I'm not here to hurt you!"

"Th-then why are you pointing a gun at me?" The civvie had a Texan twang.

"Procedure. Please get out of the car; it's not safe here."

"Well, where _is_ safe?"

"Ah..." Laura looked around. "That security desk. Good defensive position. And it's probably a lot more comfortable."

The woman giggled, still half-hysterical. "'Kay."

Hyper took a chance, lowered her weapon, and offered her hand. The civilian took it, stepping out of the car with her purse.

"What's your name?"

"Callie Davis. What's yours?"

Laura blinked, and said the first name that popped into her head. "Irene." Oh, they were never going to let her hear the end of this. "Let's go."

**-/-**

"Research's done the math on your shot. Here's your power setting." The number popped up on the visor. "Recalibrating your scope."

"Thank you, Jo." Levin dialed in the repulsor's power. Coarse and fine adjustment knobs. Just like his high school microscope.

"They're putting it on the tank," Arnadottir reported. She hadn't even bothered to unsling her weapon. Even if she had been packing one of the 'rayguns', she kvetched, it would've been like hitting it with a flashlight.

"Test shot," Shiny announced, and sent a tungsten round straight through the fuel tank of the "news van" that had been parked at the base of the tower. It also had the side effect of piercing the lift mechanism, trapping one terrorist in the elevator.

Correction; one dead terrorist.

The last rat, who had just planted the device, immediately hit the deck.

The Israeli frowned. "They overpenetrated. Central, run those numbers again? I'd hate to set off the charge while I'm trying to disable it." He flexed his shoulder; the new gun had a kick like a mule.

"Roger."

**-/-**

"Are you with the security people? What's goin' on with your gun? Why are you wearin' that suit?"

It seemed like once she wasn't in imminent fear for her life, Callie was a complete chatterbox.

There was a security mirror on the ceiling. Laura eyed it as she led the other women toward the desk. The civilian was rummaging around in her purse for something.

"Are you here alone? Are you with the police? This have anything to do with those UFOs?" Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Are we being attacked by aliens?"

She pulled out a handgun, and held it down by her leg.

"Hang on." The soldier stowed her Mutt without looking back, and leant on the table with both hands, like she was stretching.

The Texan took the chance to point her gun at the back of Laura's head.

"Byler -" Jo said.

"Yeah," Laura said, softly. "I know."

Then she hit Callie with the desk.

**-/-**

"Central, we need air support!" Shrimp yelled. "He's got us locked down!"

"Roger. Coming in from the East. Danger close."

"From the East?" Wilson looked around frantically. "Cover your ears and open your mouth!"

"What? Why?"

"For the explosion!"

"What explo -"

The Skyranger chose that point to swoop into view, aim down the two sets of cars, and introduce itself to the HYDRA trooper, using the chin-mounted Heavy Machine Gun. After handily winning the game of "mine's bigger", some of the tracer rounds accidentally proceeded past the shredded terrorist and into the fuel tanks behind him.

Several minutes later, the ringing in Okoye's ears died down enough for her to say "Oh. _That_ explosion."

**-/-**

"Stings, don't it?" said the enemy soldier.

Her world was pain. She was fairly certain the desk had cracked a few ribs, and she was having trouble breathing. She was having trouble just focusing. And everything smelled like gasoline.

No, wait, that was because she was in a puddle of gasoline. No doubt shed by the guards trying to fend off her brothers.

"Now," continued the soldier, in an exagerrated Texan accent, "way I see it, you got two options."

The infiltrator looked up. Irene had her weapon out and levelled. The configuration had shifted, the holes on the front were now horizontal. Did that make a difference?

"You can come along quietly. Or you can go for that iron there -"

The Beretta compact sat in between them, just within lunging range.

"- and I shoot you anyway, which'll probably set you on fire if it don't kill ya, what with all the gasoline you're soaked in. And even if you do get a shot at me, the gun might be wet, might not work, might set you on fire. 'Course, I could just shoot you now, save myself the trouble."

She dropped the accent, and her eyes went hard and cold. "Before you decide which way you're gonna jump, I think you should know that your people killed a _very_ close friend of mine, so I am _really_ in favor of door number three."

A mirthless grin.

"I guess the real question is...do you feel lucky?"

**-/-**

Levin frowned down his scope.

If the numbers were wrong, they either wouldn't disable the explosive, or overpenetrate and bounce around the inside of the tank until it set off a spark -

"Wait," said the rookie. "There is no detonator installed."

The sniper blinked. "Which makes my job a whole lot easier. Good job, Spots."

The Israeli moved his targeting pipper from the moderately sized target of the charge to the somewhat smaller target of the HYDRAn's head, just barely visible over the side of the platform.

He pulled the trigger.

**-/-**

"Byler," Levin called as he entered the garage, "mission's over. We're going h -"

Laura Byler was staring at a burned corpse in a puddle or gasoline, its hand outstretched. She was just lowering a fire extinguisher.

"What _happened_?" asked Spots.

"I think when they hacked the security system, they accidentally disabled the sprink -"

"The _body_, Laura!" Levin barked.

"Oh." The American looked at the body, then back at her fireteam leader. She gestured at the former with the nozzle of the extinguisher, her face expressionless. "She got burned."

**-/-**

The champagne went _pop_. Tony proceeded to poor it liberally into his team's glasses.

"All right, everyone! We have champagne. If you don't drink, we have apple cider. If you don't drink that either, we have apple juice. If you're not thirsty, we have actual apples." He produced one, and bit into it in a credible imitation of Chairman Kaga. Or his nephew.

Singh held a multimeter under Tony's nose, and spoke into an imaginary camera. "Mr. Stark, how does it feel to have revolutionized infantry combat?"

"Well, Bob, I'd say it was more of a team effort, and we can't rest on our laurels. Also, there's something _different_ about you." He pretended to study the Indian-American man in front of him. "Did you do something with your hair?"

This was met with general mirth by the audience. Even the ones who had no idea who Bob Costas was.

Tony looked around. "Hey, where's Irene?"

Suddenly, everyone looked awkward. Singh said "Uh..."

**-/-**

"Ma'am," Laura said, and saluted.

"Sit down, Byler," said the Director.

Not using her rank. Was that good or bad?

"How are your fingers?"

Laura flexed said appendages. "A little stiff."

"Development says they're working on improving the actuators in the gauntlets. So, how did you know that woman was a spy?"

"I didn't, not for sure. But we knew there was some kind of agent to give them access. Ma'am."

"What about the gun? I know you saw it in the mirror."

"We were in _Texas_, Director. In fact, didn't the news say gun sales have gone up nationwide since the invasion started? Panicky people have done stupid stuff with guns before, like drawing one in the presence of an armed soldier without telling them."

"So you baited her."

"If she was innocent, ma'am, she would've followed me peacefully. If not..."

"And you didn't let us in on your plan...why?"

"Because she was standing right next to me, ma'am."

"So we need some kind of duress codes," Schmidt sighed, leaning back in her chair. "And closed helmets. I'll get Stark on that second one."

She returned to vertical. "Now. About what happened _next_."

Oh boy.

**-/-**

When Laura left Schmidt's office, she found Levin waiting.

"Here to get chewed out too?"

"Actually, I'm here for you." He reached into his pocket. A little stiffly. "They went with 'Chiron'. Here's your share of the pot."

"Ha! I _knew_ it." It perked her up a little.

The Israeli hesitated, then reached out to his squadmate.

"I don't care what the brass said." He squeezed Laura's shoulder, smiled. "Good kill, Hotshot." And then he walked off.

The American stared after him.

_Hotshot_.

She liked it.

**-/-**

Laura knocked on Irene's hatch.

The woman who opened the door was clad in glasses, a t-shirt and sweatpants. She didn't meet the soldier's eyes, keeping her gaze to the floor.

"Laura...I...I don't know how to say this, but I _need_ you." My body, I...I want you to -"

"Everyone knows about your period, Irene."

Irene looked up, frowning. "Couldn't you at least let me have _some_ fun? It's not like I'm going to get much else amusement out of it." She opened the door wider, and gestured. "Step into my parlour."

"Looks like a bedroom."

"How'd that happen? I could've sworn I left my parlour here."

"So what to you need me to do?"

"Rub my belly."

Laura took a step back toward the door.

"It's for my period, silly.."

"Ah. So, does that new pill not work on you?"

"Well, what with everything happening, I...kinda forgot. Rao wouldn't let me use a medkit, even after I promised to wash off the nozzle afterwards. She did give me painkillers, which haven't kicked in yet." The engineer frowned. "The armoury didn't help either."

Laura looked confused.

"They wouldn't let me borrow a pistol."

Still confused.

"To kill myself."

Laura finally got the joke. "Ohhh."

Irene sat down on the bed, and sat down. She patted a spot, and Laura sat next to her, cautiously. "If you don't mind me saying so, you don't seem to be in pain."

The older woman leaned in, like she was telling a secret, and Laura noticed, for the first time, the sweet smell on her breath. "_That's because I'm drunk!_" She giggled, and dropped her head into Laura's lap.

The soldier tried not to freak out.

She could take her down five different ways with just her hands, but she couldn't figure out how to escape safely. MCMAP had been sadly lacking in that area.

"So, ah, what do you expect me to do here?" Her hands were hovering above Irene like a vulture looking for - no, she did not like _that_ metaphor one bit.

"Instructions. Tablet." Irene pointed, then rolled up her shirt.

"Oh." Laura paged through the guide. "How long?"

"About twenty minutes, I think. We'll see how it goes. Feel free to put on some music."

Oookay. The base's internal pop/rock station.

"So," Irene said, as some singer began to croon about the fact that they were _left_, to their _own_, devi-i-i-_ices_, "what do you do when you're not saving the world?"

"Angry Birds, mostly."

"Ah."

"I find it compelling as an allegory for mankind's eternal struggle against the world for the hearts of its progeny. Coming to terms with _empty nests_, if you will." Laura said, straight-faced. She tried not to think about whether she liked pushing the academic's tummy. It was just a favor for a friend, that's all. "Also, I like knocking the pigs over."

Irene turned to look at her dubiously, without raising her head. "English or Art?"

"Psych. My roomie did English, though." She snorted. "So much for two weekends a month."

"Uh...about what happened in the garage -"

"I don't want to talk about it," Laura said flatly.

"I just wanted to ask how your accent was so good."

"Well, I _am_ from Dallas."

"Thanks for this, by the way."

"No problem."

Laura waited until Irene was relaxed and drowsy and had lowered her guard, then went "you know, I've had _worse_ first dates."

**-/-**

Phantom-5 Lead was a middle-aged Indian named Nayan Chanda. He was well-known on the base for his magnificent moustache. Right now, it was twitching as he watched Voodoo Lead's obvious agitation.

"Do the coin flip again," Pena said.

Chanda shook his head. "You lost, Pena. No second chances."

"C'_mon_, Money!" Santiago called from Phantom's 'Ranger.

"In fact, wasn't it your idea?" Nayan pointed out.

"Yeah, but I don't like the cold."

"Poland is warm this time of year. Quit complaining." He studied his counterpart. "I dont believe you're actually _asking_ for the escort mission. What's the _real_ problem?"

"Fine." The Argentinian took a deep breath. "It's the name."

"The name?"

"I mean, have you seen it? 'Operation FINAL HYMN'. _Dios mio_," he muttered under his breath.

"My God," the Indian echoed cheerfully.

"It's random, I swear," Jo chipped in.

"Don't worry, Pena," Phantom Lead said. "I'm sure you'll be fine."

"Hey, boss," called Santiago from the Skyranger's ramp. "Pilot says the express to Shanghai is high in five!"

Chanda would've patted his friend on the shoulder, but he was worried the muscle suit might accidentally break it. "Remember, you'll have the old lady running the operation."

"I'm sorry, is having my boss looking over my shoulder supposed to make me feel _less_ worried?"

**-/-**

The camera in the store window faced the street, and had accidentally been left running all night. During the bulk of the incident, it displayed nothing of interest.

The portion that was posted to YouTube - and shortly thereafter LiveLeak, Dailymotion, and several filesharing sites - opens with an empty street. After a few seconds, a man in a ballistic mask and unusual body armor enters the camera's view, shooting at something offscreen with a weapon that fires red rays of light.

A green bolt enters the frame, and strikes the weapon, disabling it and injuring the soldier's hands. A second bolt strikes the soldier's armor in the leg area, and he falls.

A second soldier enters the frame from the other direction. She crouches next to the first soldier, and attempts to drag him to his rear, while firing one-handed at the offscreen assailant. The injured soldier has produced a pistol, this one apparently firing regular bullets, and is trying to fire it one-handed.

An indistinct dark mass enters the frame from offscreen, and the upright soldier is struck in her mask by it. She drops the weapon, and then claws at her face, ripping at the keffiyeh covering the lower half of her it, revealing an Asian woman with tears streaming from her eyes and foam bubbling from her lips.

The fallen soldier tries to split his attention between the assailant and his injured comrade.

The woman falls over onto all fours, then slumps to the ground.

Her comrade stares at her body for a few seconds, then empties his magazine at the threat. While he reloads, the enemy finally enters the frame, moving quickly. Before the soldier can fire, the assailant reaches him. In a few deft movements, he removes the gun, and puts a bullet through each of the soldier's hands.

He appears to be an officer of the local police.

The officer lifts up the soldier and drags him toward the window the camera is filming from. Aside from being somewhat slim, he looks perfectly normal.

Upon reaching the sidewalk outside the store, the assailant tears the soldier's ballistic mask off, revealing a Hispanic man, his face twisted with rage and defiance. The cop lowers his head toward the struggling soldier, as if for a kiss. His throat suddenly convulses, much like a snake swallowing an egg, but in reverse. The trooper's mouth is pried open, and something dark is spewed into it.

The slim man smiles. He grabs the soldier around his neck, and pushes his face into the window. Viewers see the man trying to push his way free. Then he begins to cough, to claw at his throat. His eyes go bloodshot, roll back in his head, and foam begins to bubble from his lips.

The stranger drops him when he goes limp. He then looks at the camera, smiles, waves, and walks off.

**-/-**

Mission Control was dead silent.

Well, as silent as it ever got, what with the soft hum of computers, the whispering of the ventilation system. But as for the human occupants, not a peep, not a word. Most of them were staring at a single person, who was themselves staring up at the screen with a face like granite.

At that moment, David Bradford wanted nothing more than to crawl into a hole and never come out again.

_But I have promises to keep..._

"Call it, sir," someone said quietly.

He cleared his throat. Cleared it again. Forced the words out.

"Operation STONE PROPHET is Code Black."

**-X-**

**Quad City DJs - "Space Jam"**

Wilson is "played" by James Roday. Nilssen is basically the same character he was in _Mercenaries_, and as such is played by Peter Stomare. (One of the nice things about stunt-"casting" a fanfic is that I don't have to worry about physicality.) "Shiny" Levin is played by Oded Fehr. Pena is played by Michael Mando, because not every Hispanic male military role needs to be played by Jon Huertas. _Santiago_, tho...

"Blate" to refer to ablative personal plating is from Dan Abnett's "Embedded" (good book), which features soldiers with laser weapons weilding strength-asisst rigs, and a reporter getting into a soldier's body. For the record, not a single one of those references was intentional, except the first one.

The rocket thing is based on a sequence from "Storming Intrepid" by Payne Harrison, which is pretty good as far as airport-bookstand thrillers go. Again, didn't even realize I was referencing for most of the time I was writing it.

Nayan is played by Anil Kapoor, and based on a co-worker of mine, who really does like to say "My God" and has a moustache. Eamon is based partially on me, Miles Vorkosigian (which aren't as different as you might expect), and an Irish friend, and I have no doubt that if he found himself in the body of another woman, he'd flirt with another woman just to mess with her. Heck, he does it with men already. I'm not sure how his girlfriend feels about it.

Also: _that's XCOM, baby_.


	6. 06 Feels like it's over

**06 Feels like its over, it only just begun**

**- O -**

Vahlen watched Tony wail on a heavy bag.

It was 2AM Deutschland time, and the engineer had worked himself into a sweat in the few hours he had been there. He clearly took care of himself, and Moira tamped down a surge of hormones with a mental sniff of irritation.

She had been buried alive down here too long.

"I can get you a whip. It would be faster," she said.

Stark, who had doubtless heard her enter the empty gym, didn't turn around. "Not...before...the second...date!"

Despite herself, the corner of Vahlen's mouth turned up.

Tony delivered a jaw-rattling right cross, and turned to face the good doctor, panting. "I'm guessing you're not here at this time of night for your health."

"Your team is worried about you."

"They should be." He addressed the bag again. "I...screwed..._up_!"

"Oh, I wasn't aware that you shot them yourself."

"I didn't..."

"Did you sabotage their suits? Make any foreseeable mistake?"

"No, but..."

"Have any of the troops blamed you? Any of your staff?"

"Um..."

"Then you're an idiot, Stark."

"What?"

"You're so intelligent, and you still -" poke "- think -" poke "- it's all about _you_ -" poke. It was like poking a brick wall. He was muscle _everywhere_.

"It was my gear they were wearing. My responsibility."

"Oh, really? If you think you screwed up, why aren't you fixing the problem? Hm? Do you think Shen-" Tony winced at the name "- would be sitting here, beating up this poor, defenseless bag?"

"Well, no, on account of the fact that he was a 65-year old man."

Vahlen gave an irritated huff. "_Goldjunge_, you're an engineer. What were the flaws in the suit that contributed to its failure?"

"Well...unarmored motivators and joints."

"What else?"

"Not enough facial protection -"

"Now, consider; how long would they have lasted _without_ those suits?"

Tony stood there, brow furrowed.

Vahlen shook her head. "Honestly, Stark," she said softly. "You think you are the only one with regrets? The only one who lies awake at night, wondering if they could've saved lives if they had been just a little bit better? You think I'm up at this time of night for my health?"

For the first time in their little coffee klatch, Tony looked at his colleague, really _looked_. She was wearing a t-shirt and jeans, and had bags under her eyes, which she hadn't bothered to conceal with makeup.

Or maybe she had wanted him to see her with her armor off.

He looked away.

"I see your point." He took a deep breath. "Thanks, Doc."

"Honestly," the German said, completely deadpan, "I just wanted you to stop hogging the punching bag."

**-/-**

Director Schmidt opened the door to Bradford's room without knocking.

Her hair was down, and covered the right side of her face, partially. She wore a slightly oversized sweater. All in all, his boss looked softer, like she had the edges filed off.

She paused inside the door, eyes closed, her right hand air-fingering the song Bradford was playing, a slight frown of concentration on her face.

Bradford, staring at her, missed a beat.

Her eyes opened, and she smiled. Still not her Game Face. "Is this Cash, or Nine Inch Nails?"

"A little of both."

"Little bit maudlin."

A corner of Bradford's mouth quirked. "I'm sorry, do you want me to play something else? The Monkees, maybe? Just as appropriate."

"Oh, I dunno...Freebird?"

Bradford smiled in earnest. "Why _are_ you here, ma'am?"

"Booty call."

Bradford stared at her. Then he began to giggle, then laugh, until he had to push the guitar aside and clutch his aching stomach.

Schmidt let him finish, a smile on her face, and eyes twinkling.

The Operations Manager eventually petered off. "Thanks, Paula, I needed that."

The blonde's smile grew. "I think that's the first time I've heard you use my first name."

"Ah, sorry, Director, I just -"

The smile grew crooked. "David, I didn't tell you to stop."

"So...why are you here?"

"To ask you a question." She grew serious. "Do you think that the mission would have gone better if I had been behind the wheel?"

"What?"

"It's a simple question, David." She sat on the bed, next to Bradford, cocked her head at him. "My op was a cakewalk. A milk run. By comparison."

"Er..."

She was warm, and smelt like freshly washed wool. And apple pie, of all things.

"I haven't personally run an op for a while, " she admitted. "But your team got _hammered_. You had to stand there and watch the temple come down around your ears, so to speak. It's bad enough for me just watching the tapes."

He had never been this close to her eyes before.

"If you want to take a break, I'll find someone to cover for you. Jo could do most of it, but she hasn't quite perfected your signature. Also, its nice to see you smile."

"Thanks."

"You still haven't answered my question."

"You barely let me get a word in edgewise."

Paula made a zipping motion across her mouth, then propped her face in her hands, Holly Golightly-style.

"No. I can't see any way I could've stopped the train rolling right off the tracks, unless I was psychic."

"But?" his boss prompted.

"...But it doesn't make me feel any better."

"I know that feeling." Schmidt looked distant, then snapped back to the present. "Best thing for it is time. And chocolate. I'll send some chocolate."

"I don't like chocolate."

"You do now. That's an order." She stood, and turned to face David. "Cheaper than Prozac. Easier to get, too."

"If there's anything you need, anything at all, let me know. _Please_. Within the budget, I mean."

"Anything?" Bradford asked.

"Well, don't expect me to try and play guitar."

**-/-**

"Miss Smith is here to see you," Stane's new secretary said.

The executive looked up from his computer, frowned, and took a deep breath.

"About the name," he said, as the redhead walked in. "Lerna International? As in the Lernean _Hydra_? Kind of obvious, don't you think?"

"Some things are best hidden in plain sight." A smile spread across her face. The kind of greasy smile that made it hard for Stane to tell whether she was actually glad to see him as a person, or just as her next victim.

He controlled his shudder, turned it into him straightening up and adjusting his tie.

Smith walked past him, to stare out his window at the Stark campus. The executive was forced to turn his chair awkwardly to keep her in view. "And I would say your suits are a little 80s, don't you think?" Before Stane could retort: "How goest the ironmongering?"

She knew, of course. She probably knew his underwear size.

"Pretty well," Stane said. "Stocks are going up. I've had some of My Guys go over those blueprints you sent over. It's kind of hard to get anything done with SHIELD looking over my shoulder."

"Well, I am sure you will be resourceful." The woman said, still facing the window. "After all, we already made the evidence connecting you and the Ten Rings vanish."

"What? That was you?"

"Yes. Why do you think a bunch of g-men haven't come breaking down your door?" She put a hand on Stane's shoulder, making his skin crawl. "Remember, Obie, we have just as much interest in maintaining this...working arrangement as you do."

The hand slid across his shoulders, in a parody of Stane's own favorite gesture. "After all, we wouldn't want SHIELD to learn that you tried to kill your boss. If they found us, we'd _have_ to tell them. They can be so persuasive, I mean."

The woman from HYDRA smiled, and tightened her grip on his shoulder. He could feel her red-painted nails digging into his flesh, even through his shirt. It occurred to the American, as he tried not to lean away, that he had never been so repulsed by the touch of a beautiful redhead before.

"And I don't think," Smith hissed in his ear, "_either_ of us want that to happen."

**-/-**

Due to a lack of space in the morgue, the coffins were kept in the hangar, pending their ride out.

"How are they going to explain this?" Fletcher said, as she stepped next to Dr. Kavita Rao.

The Medical head snapped out of her reverie, and, uncharacteristically, refrained from making a biting comment. Instead she said "Who?"

"The government," said the Scotswoman, nodding towards the boxes discreetly arranged in a corner. "Governments, I mean. They need to explain why a Marine and a Thai cop are on video fighting little green men in Shanghai, which is, last time I checked, far outside of their patrol area."

"Oh, that's easy," said the Indian. "Lie. The US, Thailand, and even China can neither confirm nor deny that there is some kind of international alien fighting task force."

She continued to stare at the coffins, like she had been for an hour.

"I did my trauma residency in Delhi," the doctor said, suddenly. "I know a sadist when I see one."

"And not the fun type, either," said the redhead, not quite under her breath.

"He was _playing_ with them, Fletcher. Like a cat with a mouse."

"But why would he - was it for us?"

"Oh, not _just_ for us. Video's up to a million or so hits already. _Chudir pola_ gets to show the world us being beaten, even with our high-tech kit. This mysterious team, who's been putting out fires all over, is beaten by one man. Or alien, whatever."

"But it wasn't -"

"I know. But the public doesn't know, and we can't tell them we got swarmed without exposing ourselves." She shook her head. "And even if we did, what then? 'No, it wasn't just _one_ human-looking invader, it was a half-dozen. And they weren't all policemen, either. Some of them were just average, everyday people you might meet on the street! Oh, and they took some of our gear, too. Just cut through some of our best armor with who-knows-what. _There's no need to fear_.'"

"I can see how that might be counterproductive."

"Indeed," Rao said. She shook her head. "I'd respect it as a brilliant piece of propaganda if I weren't staring at the results."

"And then there's morale," added the Scot. "I once read about there was once a gang that could take on a second gang, but they'd lose so many boys doing it that they'd end up picked off by the next biggest fish."

"Ah. A Pyrrhic victory. So what did they do?"

"They struck at their heart, so to speak. Ambushes, sabotage. They made a point of showing the little dogs that the big dogs couldn't protect them, and they either ran off or defected."

"So you think that they did this because they're lazy?"

"No," Fletcher said thoughtfully. "I think they're trying to do more than scare everyone. I think they're trying to make a point."

"What would that be?"

"Good question."

**-/-**

"After I finished in military, I went back to school and finished my doctorate. Russian literature."

"Should I call you _Doctor_ Dunayevsky?"

"Sasha is fine. So, I get job teaching at university. I liked it. One day, I meet girl. She comes to see me in office." He shrugged. "I think she liked large men.

"We forgot to lock the door." He frowned. "If we had just a few more seconds...She was not _my_ student. She didn't even go to that school. But she _was_ Dean's daughter.

"She blackballed me. Could not even get job teaching high school. And my mother, my sisters...I had to miss a few meals." He shook his head.

"But one of my former students paid me a visit. He 'knew someone' who needed a big guy to stand around and look intimidating." He half-smiled, and looked at his Mafiya tattoos. "And so, I fell among thieves."

"So...how did you end up in -" The therapist waved his hand. "- this?"

"The FSB has very good memory. Worked with them a few times while I was serving. Seems I impressed them."

"But you still maintain your...ties?"

"You do not leave your family. Either of them. And one will take care of the other." His brow furrowed. "But my supplier has vanished. No one knows where."

"Maybe I'm missing something, but how does that relate to the failed mission?"

"There was coin toss. To decide which team would go on mission."

"Oh."

"It was chance. Blind luck. That could've been _my_ team. Like locking the door."

"Does it bother you that your life could've ended so randomly?"

The Russian snorted. "_Perhaps you have half a century before you die—what makes this any different from a half hour?_ Tolstoy. I was in the military, Doctor. I was _Krysha_. I am big man, big target. I am not worried about myself, I am worried about my team. My squad leader, he thinks it is his fault, and yet...and yet I think he is happy it is not our squad."

"Do you think it's survivor's guilt?"

"I do not know." The big man shrugged. "Maybe he is scared. Maybe we all are." He paused for thought, then burst out. "We thought we were _pobeditel_, and then that _toshchiy ublyudok_ whispers _memento mori_ in our ear."

"I thought you said you weren't afraid of dying."

Dunayevsky thought about it. "I think..." he said, at length, "that I am not afraid of dying. I am afraid of _losing_."

**-/-**

"Lights, please," Tony said.

They didn't strictly _need_ to turn off the lights to use the holo-table, but Tony wanted his team's full attention.

They gathered around the table without prompting.

"These are our rigs."

He bought up a half-dozen holograms; the Herakles suits belonging to Phantom team.

"And these are our rigs after STONE PROPHET."

The holograms went red and gold, in certain places.

The Development lab was silent. A few people waited for him to go "Any questions?" But he didn't finish the reference. Instead, he just stared at the hologram, brow furrowed, before speaking.

"When I was a kid, I wanted to be an astronaut for about a week. Did a lot of reading. Anyone know who Gene Krantz was?"

A few hands went up.

"Gold stars for all of you. For those of you who didn't do the assigned reading, he was Flight Director at NASA, back in the day. After Apollo-1 caught fire on the pad, the team came in the next day, and Gene gave a speech about how they screwed up, and how they could never do that again, because other people would end up paying for it."

You could've heard a pin drop.

"I don't think it applies here."

The crowd shifted in surprise.

"We didn't screw up." He triggered another hologram, and the rigs were shrunk, and shunted off to the side. "He screwed us."

The display showed a 3d model of the slim man who had been caught killing Santiago live on Candid Camera. The whole room got a little more tense. Sharply-drawn breaths, jaws tightening, fists clenched, that sort of thing.

"Well," the billionaire amended, "him and his pals. But that's not the point." Deep breath. "I know it's tempting to blame yourself. _I_ have. But sometimes...sometimes you get up, and you do everything right, and you _still_ lose. And all you can do is try and get it right the next day. And sometimes even then -"

He stopped, thought about it, ran out of steam. "Nevermind. I'm crap at speeches."

"Obviously," someone said.

Tony's mouth twitched as he pulled up the holograms of the rigs again, and shoved Officer Smiley into his own little corner.

"Now, this system isn't good at backtracking. That's our job. I've pushed the footage we have to your devices." A ghost of his old smile. "We're about to get all _Seconds from Disaster_ on this."

**-/-**

The Director looked up. "Come in!"

The door swung open, and the sentries let Irene pass.

"Ma'am," Irene said, wincing a bit at the bright lights. "I'm ready to return to work."

"You didn't need to come to my office to tell me you're off the rag."

Irene blushed.

"So...when I came back, my first priority was catching up. They'd been working on fixing flaws in the Herakles."

"What did they find?"

"They found they couldn't make significant improvements in armor without affecting mobility. And the more weight, the more strength was required just to carry it. More strength means more moving parts, and more vulnerabilities."

"So, we wouldn't have a 'light' rig any more."

"Exactly. So...the team kinda went ahead and designed two more power suit platforms."

Schmidt blinked. "And by platforms, you mean...?"

"You know how you can order a car from the dealer, with optional leather seats? Think that, but with a grenade launcher."

"And this is what he got up to _without_ you?" Schmidt raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps you should have your period more often."

Irene managed not to lunge for the Director's throat.

Barely.

**-X-**

**Honey Ryder - "Numb"**

If you haven't figured it out by now, Dunayevsky is a reference to Team Fortress 2's heavy. And I did not remember that "Sasha" is the name of the stock Minigun. I chose it because, like "Eamon", it's a version of "Alexander", which means "defender".


	7. 07 Don't call it a comeback

**07 Don't call it a comeback**

**-X-**

"All right, here we go," Tony said, for the fifth time.

His acting-assistant, Singh, glanced up from where he was setting up the projector. "Nervous, Stark?"

"Ha ha," said the billionaire. "Yeah, kinda."

They were in a briefing room, getting ready to introduce the new suits to the troops. Already they had had to deny rumors that the rigs would breathe fire.

Though Tony had quietly made a note about trying to incorporate that into the next version.

"What? Don't you do all those speeches?"

"Pepper - my assistant - writes those. When I show up, I mean. You heard that behind every great man, there's a great woman?"

"Yeah...?"

"That's her. I don't...it's never been about something this _important_ before. People's _lives_ hinge on this." He yawned.

"One, their lives hinge on the _suits_, not the speech. Two, you've spoken to soldiers before, dude. I saw the one you did just before you got...taken." He puffed up his chest. "_I prefer the weapon you only have to fire_ once! _That's the way Dad did it, that's the way America does it, and it's worked out pretty well so far!_"

Tony grinned. "Yeah, I went kind of off-script. Watched _Patton_ on the plane. I guess...I guess it didn't feel _real_."

"Until now." Singh caught Tony's yawn.

"Until now."

Irene had mentioned to Tony once that he liked attention (to which he had responded "duh"), which was why he spent so much time showing off. Heck, it probably explained his beard.

Then she had quoted Emily Dickinson's "Nobody", and pointedly put Kanye West's "Welcome to Heartbreak" on loop on the lab stereo. For an hour. Then "Paparazzi", which he _still_ couldn't get out of his head.

_I promise I'll be kind_... he thought, as the soldiers filed into the room. There were cheers for the returning Masumoto. Several, of course, buttonhooked for the snack table, only to groan when they saw the sign that said that refreshments were reserved for _after_ the briefing.

Irene's idea.

"My lovely assistant isn't up to speed, so we'll have to make do with Mr. Singh,." Tony said, as the soldiers sat. "Unfortunately, he does not look nearly as good in fishnets and heels, or being sawed in half."

Laughter and catcalls.

"Well, let's get to what I have up my sleeve." He hit the projector. "For my first trick, I've - _we've_ - designed two new suits. I already have an appointment pencilled in for Fletcher to yell at me."

A few of the troops leaned forward. Others chuckled.

"We also made some improvements on the Herakles. Meet the Mark 02. Better armor coverage, articulation, and less exposed weak points. We've also improved the mobility."

He switched to the second suit. "Meet the Ajax Medium blah blah blah. Alert readers may have noticed that it's better armored than the Herakles. Thing is, it's not as mobile. Think, well, a Ferrari vs a Mustang."

The last suit looked like little more than a slab of sloped plates of armor in the rough shape of a man.

"And then there's the Achilles, the Heavy. He's not much faster than your average human. But if the Herakles is the Ferrari, and the Jax is a Mustang, this is a..." He sought the words. "...M1 Abrams. All three suits have electrical couplers on their hands to run handheld equipment."

_Create a mystery. Draw them in. Mix it up_.

Thank you, Pepper.

"That 'blah blah blah' from earlier? The suits are being 'redesignated' as 'Mobility Platforms'. Platforms for _what_, you say?"

A bunch of wireframes came up, eclipsing all three suits.

The soldiers started murmuring. Tony grinned like a shark.

"Christmas just came early, boys and girls."

**-/-**

Strictly speaking, they probably weren't supposed to be using this rifle range, what with being civilians. But the _Heer_ or _Polizei_ or whoever had posted the stern-looking man at the check-in desk had just nodded when Levin had shown his ID, hadn't even asked for hers, and just waved them through without even checking the veteran's rifle bag.

"Why are we here?" Kristin asked.

"To teach you how to shoot."

"I _know_ how to shoot."

"Yes, they gave you the basics." Levin turned to face her and walked backwards. "They did not teach you how to _shoot_ shoot."

The Nordic woman blinked. "I do not understand."

"Exactly." The Israeli resumed normal walking. His spotter sighed.

"I meant, why are we _allowed_ here? This range is -" she gestured at the Very Serious men and women who were also there, making her feel very _civilian_ by comparison - "clearly not for public use."

The older man didn't answer, at first. He put down his bag on the designated spot, and laid out his apparatus. They had their own ear protection, which also, conveniently, functioned as a radio so they could communicate without removing their headgear.

"We are here, officially, because one of XCOM's cover organizations is a Private Security Company that has use of the range, due to paying a hefty fee to certain highly placed Deutschland officials." He laid down on the mat, set up the rifle's bipod, aimed it vaguely downrange. "That target over there at five hundred yards, one shot."

She missed, of course. She was using an unfamiliar weapons platform, with unzeroed sights, aiming at something far out of her hasty training's range, with no knowledge of how to correct for wind or any of the other fancy stuff _real_ snipers could probably do in their _sleep_ -

"Unofficially, this is clearly a case of a rent-a-soldier trying to get points with their..what's that American term? Squeeze." He squeezed Kris' far shoulder, just theatrically enough for her to know he was faking it, but not enough to be obvious to any viewers. "Of course, if challenged, I have your company ID too. Which doesn't exactly mean it's _not_ a date."

"Well, if it works," Kristen sniffed, "but why would I want to impress _you_?"

"Funny." Her partner removed his arm.

The Icelander grinned at him. "What did you do before this?"

"I was in Shin Bet."

"Why did they send you to XCOM?"

"Because I am one of their best snipers. Also, maybe because I am gay."

Arnadottir's shot went extremely wide. "What?"

"Officially, of course, they are not allowed to discriminate." Levin went on calmly. "But sometimes I wonder. Also, you need to learn to shoot even through distractions."

"Through distractions. Right." The Nordic woman took a deep breath as she re-sighted.

"I sometimes wonder how many of us were chosen _just_ because we are the best, and how many were chosen, in whole or in part, because of...other reasons. Maybe Pena found his CO with someone who was not his wife. Maybe Masumoto is the scion of a powerful family her boss didn't want to risk offending. The little lost boys and girls. Squeeze, don't jerk."

"This isn't real sniping!" the rookie protested. "There should be more, _ég veit ekki_, more _math_!"

"Of course it is not. We need to make you a _soldier_ before you are a spotter. And to do that, you need to learn how to shoot. Your police are not armed, correct?"

"Yes."

"Good. Now jog in place for sixty seconds, then shoot again."

After a few seconds, he said "jog faster."

And then; "_faster_."

**-/-**

"Miss Smith is here to see you," Stane's new secretary said.

The executive looked up from his computer, frowned, and took a deep breath.

"About the name," he said, as the redhead walked in. "Lerna International? As in the Lernean Hydra? Kind of obvious, don't you think?"

"Some things are best hidden in plain sight." A smile spread across her face. The kind of greasy smile that made it hard for Stane to tell whether she was actually glad to see him as a person, or just as her next victim.

He controlled his shudder, turned it into him straightening up and adjusting his tie.

Smith walked past him, to stare out his window at the Stark campus. The executive was forced to turn his chair awkwardly to keep her in view. "And I would say your suits are a little 80s, don't you think?" Before Stane could retort: "How goest the ironmongering?"

She knew, of course. She probably knew his underwear size.

"Pretty well," Stane said. "Stocks are going up. I've had some of My Guys go over those blueprints you sent over. It's kind of hard to get anything done with SHIELD looking over my shoulder."

"Well, I am sure you will be resourceful." The woman said, still facing the window. "After all, we already made the evidence connecting you and the Ten Rings vanish."

"What?" His brows furrowed with suspicion. "That was you?"

"Yes. Why do you think a bunch of g-men haven't come breaking down your door?" She put a hand on Stane's shoulder, making his skin crawl. "Remember, Obie, we have just as much interest in maintaining this...working arrangement as you do."

The hand slid across his shoulders, in a parody of Stane's own favorite gesture. "After all, we wouldn't want SHIELD to learn that you tried to kill your boss. If they found us, we'd _have_ to tell them. Out of practicality, I mean."

The woman from HYDRA smiled, and tightened her grip on his shoulder. He could feel her red-painted nails digging into his flesh, even through his shirt. It occurred to the American, as he tried not to lean away, that he had never been so repulsed by the touch of a beautiful redhead before.

"And I don't think," she hissed in his ear, "that _either_ of us want that to happen."

**-/-**

"Ma'am," Bradford said stiffly, "I'd like to register my protests."

Schmidt eyed her second in command, as she stopped moving forward and began to jog in place. He hadn't brought a cart like Vahlen had.

"Good morning, Bradford."

He flushed. "Er, good morning, Director Schmidt."

"Are you registering in your official, or personal capacity?"

"Both."

"So you're back on the job?"

"No. Not yet."

"Oh. Well, let me explain my reasoning to you."

"I don't -"

"That _wasn't_ a request."

"Oh."

"First off, it helps to muddy the waters. It becomes harder for any civilians to track our activities by our unique weapons if our weapons are everywhere. They're already starting to suspect our existence."

"And?"

"It also helps various nations - and approved PMCs - protect themselves and the public better. And, finally, _we need the money_." She let her weariness show for the first time in their conversation. "Fielding the best combat hardware on the planet isn't cheap, and there's only so much I can talk out of the Council. Not only will we sell them the weapons themselves, but we also get lucrative maintenance contracts."

"Spoken like a government contractor, ma'am."

Schmidt winced theatrically. "_Ouch_, Bradford."

"How will they know how to use them?"

"If folks can read IKEA instructions, they can read ours."

"I still don't like it. We should be teaching them to use the weapons they have more efficiently."

"We can't spare the personnel," Schmidt said brusquely. "But I will take both your protests and suggestions under advisement."

"Ah." Bradford's shoulders sagged. Schmidt reached out and patted him on the shoulder.

"This isn't personal, David. Part of your job as my XO is to try and stop me if you see me making a dumb decision. And remember, we're not giving them any of our heavy weapons."

Bradford frowned. "Noted."

"Look, if you really want to be more involved, you can start coming to see me in the morning." She grimaced. "Help me with the paperwork. Bring your own coffee."

"I think...I think I'd like that. Thank you, Director." Bradford started to turn away, then paused. "If I did...leave, who would you get to replace me?"

"I don't think I could."

"That's flattering, Director, but I'd like to know." He raised his cup to his lips.

Schmidt waited until he had taken a sip. "Tony Stark."

Bradford snorted coffee through his nose.

**-/-**

"Tony," said Irene, "have you considered giving the suits their own Arc Reactors? Because if power were less of a factor, they could -"

"I _did_ consider it. For about five seconds, before they killed Phantom and stripped the bodies. The Reactor is...kind of a big deal." He tapped his chest. "If they get their hands on it, who knows what they'll do? And the suits are plenty strong on batteries."

His assistant stared at him. "You've seen your weapons turned on the good guys before, haven't you?"

"Yeah, just before the Ten Rings got me." He frowned. "Wasn't much fun the first time. I don't need another Lord Voldemort situation. For one thing, I hate snakes."

Eamon stared at his boss. There was a lot he could say: about the needs of the many, about how selfish Tony was being.

But by now he recognized the set of the older man's jaw.

He was going to have to come at this from a different angle.

**-/-**

Jamal Washington woke up, and found himself staring into the dead eyes of Czarny.

He yelped and scrambled back. A hand grasped his shoulder, and he looked up into the bearded face of his squad leader Sgt. "Viking" Nilsson.

"Easy, rookie", he growled. "He's not going to bite."

Washington stared at him, mouth open, then looked back at the corpse. Its neck was lolling at an odd angle, eyes staring at nothing.

He was already starting to think of Czarny as "it".

"Whiplash?"

The Swede shrugged. "Probably. I don't know, I'm not a doctor. Kind of the opposite, really."

Washington looked around. It seemed like Czarny had been thrown across the Skyranger. The safety harness, never made for a power suit, much less an Achilles, had snapped, sending him flying across the dropship. And when his head hit the bulkhead -

Something threatened to surge out of the American's throat. He choked it down, and thanked God that everyone else had been wearing Medium or Light suits.

So, someone had taken the dead man, and propped him up. Someone had unbuckled Washington. And someone had stripped the Pole of his gear.

"Pilots are dead too," Viking said. "Congratulations, you're the new support gunner." He shoved a SAW into the rookie's hands.

"But...I'm a medic."

Nilsson paused in the doorway. "And now you are _also_ a support gunner," he said, in tones one might use to explain something to a child. He vanished, and Washington scrambled after him.

He emerged onto the helipad with a wince at the late-afternoon sunlight. This part of Marseille was relatively quiet, the 'Ranger's crash landing notwithstanding.

"Did anyone see what hit us?" he asked the rest of Hotel Squad.

"No, but the flares didn't work," said Levin, the squad's sniper, in the Herakles.

Macinally, the marksman, who was favoring his left leg, looked at the skidmark the dropship had left across the pad. "Well, obviously."

Levin's spotter, also in the Herakles, chuckled. Arnold or something.

"Masks down. We'll take the service stairwell to the ground. After all, we wouldn't want to panic the civilians."

Everyone looked at the dropship, then back at the Swede, who was very clearly not smiling. Albeit with difficulty.

The second the mask dropped into place, Washington felt himself calm down. What was it about having metal between him and reality that let him shut it out?

He looked at the team, which was already moving toward the hotel's stairs.

"So let me get this straight," the American said. "We lost our transport, we lost the pilots, we lost our support gunner, a medic is filling in for him, our marksman has comprised mobility, and we have no drone oversight, or communication with HQ."

"You forgot the part where we have no idea where the objective is," Viking pointed out.

"Oh, that's easy." The younger man pointed towards the smoke rising from a location a few blocks away. "Where there's smoke, there's plasma fire."

**-/-**

"_There_," Jocasta said. "I just got a telemetry ping off the _Hotel Qualité_'s WiFi."

"Are they all right?" Irene asked.

"Four of them. One injury; Mac. One missing; Czarny."

"Can you contact them?" one of the techs asked.

"It's one-way only. And I'm not getting any signal from the relay in the Skyranger. Local mobiles are jammed. Local phones are down. Cable and Cable Internet are up. And our little Peeping Tom is back."

"Can you lock him out?" Tony asked.

"No, I - wait."

"Wait, what?"

"He just...let me in to the security camera feeds."

"He _what_?"

"I think...I think he _wants_ us to watch."

**-/-**

The streets in that section of Marseille would probably be very appealing to the tourists, were they not cowering in fear right now. You could still smell the last of the sea breeze, even under the smoke.

The civvies shrank away from the soldiers passing through.

"There's our objective," the Swede said. "Shiny, Spots, set up on that bus. Wash, forward overwatch."

Three "Roger"s.

**-/-**

"Schmidt must be freaking out," Singh commented.

"Not 'freaking out', exactly, just...concerned," Jo informed him.

"Are you sure there's no way to get a signal to them?"

"Yes. I've considered every possibility I could think of, plus there's those two geniuses over there -"

"What about breaking into the cable signal?"

The heads of his bosses turned like turrets.

**-/-**

"Arnadottir, make some noise," Levin ordered.

"On it," replied his spotter. She sent out a Ping, and after a second or two got a bunch of human-sized contacts in the distance, and one large one directly in front of her.

She turned off the overlay. Nothing but thin air. Overlay on; big contact.

"I think there's a glitch; I've got a contact on sonic that's not there on optical."

"Think your Pinger was damaged by the crash?"

Washington frowned. "Levin, don't you have thermal in one of your module slots?"

"Indeed I do."

Not only was the contact still there on thermal, but it had gotten closer to the Icelander.

"Kris," Levin said, as he reached for his sidearm as discreetly as possible, "_don't mo-_"

The x-ray shimmered into the visible spectrum.

It looked a lot like one of those squid robots from _The Matrix_, except smaller, covered in metallic, triangular plates that reminded the Israeli of stealth aircraft, and being a few feet away from his partner with limbs outspread and a glowing green weapon about to discharge -

The Icelander raised her Mutt, and fired. Again and again. At some point, she realized she was screaming. It was at about the juncture when a half-dozen laser shotgun blasts had reduced the squid to smoking ruin on the top of the bus, and her weapon was going _click-click_ on a dead battery.

She looked up at Shiny, breathing heavily, her teeth gritted, fire in her eyes.

He was struck by how much she looked like some kind of Valkyrie, or some kind of vengeful spirit of war. Beautiful.

Aesthetically speaking.

"Good reflexes," Levin noted.

"_Takk_."

And that's when the robot's plasma weapon exploded.

**-/-**

"Arnadottir's heart rate spiked, she fired her weapon until empty, then her heart rate started to come down, then the armor received damage to the upper body, facial area, and upper arms," Jo reported.

Tony swore. "Somebody get us that cable signal!"

**-/-**

"Contacts!" Mac cried. "I think it's more of those gents who took out Phantom!"

Mattias Nilsson took his cold spike of fear at the marksman's words and buried it down someplace deep, where he could ignore it.

He'd had lots of practice.

"I can't do anything about your eyes," he said, stowing his medkit.

"That's...that's okay," said Spots. She blinked at the light, then rotated her right shoulder experimentally. "Ouch."

"Easy," said Levin.

"I am fine. I just...need moment to rest."

"As your CO. I am ordering you to stay still."

The woman subsided. "Yes, sir."

"How about those contacts, Mac?" the Swede called.

"They're ducking into the buildings. Still haven't come out. Think they're waiting for us to make a run across the square?"

"It's what I'd do." Nilsson reconsidered. "Well, if I were out of high explosives, anyway."

"I can see a survivor in the cab of one truck."

"Maybe he can tell us something." The squad leader considered the situation. "Okay. First, we are going to get into _that_ church."

"And then what?"

"Have a smoke."

**-/-**

"Got the cable splice ready," Stark reported.

"That's nice, except they're out of range of local wifi. I have no idea where they are."

**-/-**

Smoke grenades went flying through the windows of the church, ruining a few centuries-old pieces of stained-glass. Which was a shame, Washington thought.

The devices landed, and detonated, covering the area around their HVT with thick smoke. The XCOM forces promptly leapt through the windows themselves, into a mass of vague and confused plasma fire.

"Better than the Jaws of Life," Sergeant Nilsson was heard to say.

A few seconds later, they pulled the man out of the wreckage. Their first clue that something was wrong was his outfit; he wore a pinstriped three-piece with no coat, and a gunbelt hastily strapped on over it.

The Swede, who had worn a similar ensemble himself, privately disapproved, on the grounds that the belt clashed with his shoes.

The second clue was that the subject, in response to stims, opened his eyes, took one look at them, and declared that he wasn't telling XCOM anything.

"Yep," Washington said, "HYDRA."

**-/-**

A few seconds later, Hotel-7 went to cover in the street with their trussed prisoner. Unfortunately, none of them had bought gags, and they didn't wear socks under their bodysuits.

In the end, they had ripped off the HVT's sleeve, and tied it around his face.

"The X-Rays seem to be really interested in you," Nilsson noted, squirming a bit farther behind the plinith. "Any idea why?"

"Mmph!"

"Just five Euros? They wouldn't go through this much trouble for that."

Levin fired at a second-story window. "Infiltrator down."

Washington blinked. "Wait. Where are they shooting at us from? What are their locations?"

Nilsson pointed, without exposing himself.

"They haven't got our rear covered," said Washington, who was the one covering said flank.

"Maybe they're trying to push us back to the church -"

A large, apelike creature in dull-green armor burst through a nearby store window, seized Washington by the neck, and carried him out of sight.

**-/-**

When the rookie was finally released by the alien, it was only as he was being flung through the air, to smash into a wall.

_Ouch_, Washington thought.

He staggered to his feet. He had lost his weapon at some point, the big guy was charging toward him, he didn't look like he wanted to hand him a Watchtower pamphlet, and he had the sneaking suspicion that his sidearm would do little more than tickle.

The rookie yelled "Suit, all power to strength!"

He caught the alien's arms, each the size of his torso, as they tried to smash him into a pancake, and was immediately driven onto one knee.

He could feel the strain, even through the rig, so he gritted his teeth, and pushed _back -_

Then everything went white, and he hit the wall hard, _again_, getting the wind knocked out of him. When he hit the ground, he looked up at the big guy, and realized that he had _kicked_ him -

- And he wasn't going to get up in time.

**-/-**

"What about Washington?" Levin yelled.

"We've got our own problems!" Nilsson snarled. "Covering fire!"

Levin sprinted for the shop window, and leaped through, scattering the charming little knick-knacks. "Clear!"

"Iceland, you're up! Go!"

The woman nodded, and followed her partner. She tripped going through the window.

"Sorry."

"Not your fault."

Spots laid down on her back, and pinged the x-rays' position above him, giving both Levin and Mac firing solutions.

"Thanks," said the Israeli.

Then he fired his Orion.

Straight up through two floors.

**-/-**

Elsewhere, a perfectly innocuous-looking tractor-trailer exploded.

**-/-**

"Jammer down!" Jo declared.

It took a few seconds for Irene to realize that the large, menacing shape that was strolling toward Washington, with the confident gait of a predator approaching cornered and helpless prey, was a Muton -

"Jo!" Eamon heard his mouth say, entirely of its own volition, "Fire Washington's chest repulsor, maximum power, _right now_!"

"What?" Jo said, confused. "Oh, yes, I see, but you aren't authorized to -"

"A man's _life_ is at stake, and you're arguing with me about _protocol_?"

"We don't even know if his suit can take that stress, and -"

"_As ucht Dé_, Jocasta," Irene yelled, "_do it_!"

There was a second of silence before the AI went "Okay. All right."

**-/-**

The aperture on Washington's chest irised open and began to glow.

Then his suit's arms, entirely without input from him, pushed him to a position where the glowing was pointed at the big, green alien.

It stopped, and growled suspiciously at the light.

Then it took a high-power repulsor blast to the face.

**-/-**

"What," said one of the Operations staff, "the _h_ -"

**-/-**

It _still_ wasn't down. Down on one knee, sure, but it only seemed blinded and stunned, not seriously hurt.

"Base," coughed Washington, "Central, whoever that was, he's still kicking. Got another one of those?"

"You don't have enough power," a British woman informed him. No, wait, that was the XCOM AI. Jolene or something. "Can you escape?"

He tried, he really did, but his left leg wouldn't take any weight.

"There's critical damage to your leg, and the suit. I...I don't think you can get away in time."

The alien got up, a bit unsteadily.

"Oh." He took a moment to digest that. The only response he could think of was "This has _not_ been my best first day on the job."

"Well, look on the bright side."

The creature shook it's head, focused on the soldier, and prepared to charge.

"What bright side?"

"Maybe tomorrow will be better."

And that's when the cavalry arrived.

**-/-**

Nilsson introduced himself to the new x-ray with a burst of laser fire as he charged. It didn't hit much, didn't do much damage, but that was okay; he just needed to get his attention.

The big guy's response was to turn to face the rest of Hotel, and _roar_, emitting a wave of rage that caused Levin to falter, and Mac, farther back, to flinch. The Swede grit his teeth and powered through it, tossing his rifle to the side.

Ugly was waiting, though, and met him with a swipe of a massive fist, one which hit nothing but empty air.

The squad leader slid to a stop between the alien's legs, his Sonic Stunner out and ready. To his eternal shame, the only one-liner he could think of before he pulled the trigger was "hey, listen -"

The creature screamed, and covered its ears. But when the ultrasonic pulse died down, it was still standing. And now it was _very_ pissed off at one bearded soldier in particular.

Viking pulled the trigger again. The screen flickered, then went dark. His eyes widened. "Oh -"

**-/-**

Jo said "firing chest thr -"

**-/-**

Nilsson put his hands - and the couplers on them - to the alien's crotch, yelled "_Suit, shock him!_", and hoped he wasn't about to be squished.

**-/-**

There was a stunned silence, as the alien on the screen screamed in pain, and, finally, collapsed.

"Well," said Singh. "_That_ happened."

**-/-**

Mac reached down and hauled the rookie to his feet.

"Thanks," said the American. He looked at the dead...thing, ignoring how Nilsson was trying to get Shiny to take a picture, c'mon, do it.

"Big, isn't he?" murmured the marksman.

"_I'll_ say." Washington took a deep breath. "Talk about direct current."

The Scot looked sharply at him. Presently, he said "talk about getting _Thunderstruck_."

"Talk about _Shooting to Thrill_." Something was pulling his face into a smile.

"Talk about a _Big Gun_."

"Talk about a _Highway to Hell_."

"Talk about a -"

**-/-**

At some point in the deluge of AC/DC puns, Irene had buried her face in her hands. Several members of the Development team were rolling their eyes. Tony, of course, had a great big smile on his face.

"I _like_ this kid!" he declared.

**-/-**

"Jo," said Nilsson, "tell Malibu I want my money back."

"So now what?" said the rookie, as Arnadottir arrived with the prisoner.

"We find someplace to hunker down and wait for evac."

"What about the big guy?"

"Do _you_ want to carry him?"

**-/-**

The loudspeaker crackled. "Starkos to the Director's office."

Tony looked at his assistant. "You're in _troooouble_."

She gave him a rueful half-smile. "_It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done_." A deep breath. "See you later."

"As for you, Tony," Jo continued, "your team needs to figure out how to transport this 'Muton' safely back to base, and you have to do it before he wakes up, using whatever's on the ground."

"So, you're giving us the Apollo 13 problem? I wish we knew more about it. Can you have someone wake it up just long enough for me to -"

"_No_, Stark."

**-/-**

The Director used the old principal's trick of arranging papers on her desk before speaking to Irene, to build tension, to establish dominance. Then she clapped her hands on the desk and gave the engineer a bright, stomach-churning smile.

"I'd like to talk to you about that order you gave Jocasta."

Oh boy.

"I understand that it was a high-stress situation, and you probably didn't fully consider your actions."

Oh, good, it was going to be one of those.

"You're an intelligent woman -" and here a bit of steel edged into her voice "- so can _you_ tell me what was wrong with what you did?"

Oh no, it was going to be one of _those_. The type where you not only got the rope to hang yourself, but had to tie the knot and pull the lever too.

"Well..." It would be unprofessional to squirm. "I violated the chain of command. I...I suggested an unproven method of defense."

"I won't ask if you had that idea earlier and just forgot to mention it, or if it came to you out of the blue. Also, this chest-beam trick used a dangerous amount of power. Power Private Washington might've needed if there had been other enemy combatants in the area."

"I...I see."

Schmidt studied her subordinate.

"You missed one very critical point."

"Ah?" Don't flinch.

"You didn't issue a request. You gave an order, like you expected it to be obeyed." Beat. "Is this going to be a problem, going forward?"

Would being fired count as a mission failure? "N - no, ma'am."

"Good. Don't let me keep you. I'm sure I won't have to speak to you again."

**-/-**

Vahlen's phone beeped at her.

Then it beeped again, more insistently. This time she paid attention, and turned away from the containment cell - and the reinforcements that were being made - to take the call. It was Marceau, who was generally in charge of Recovery. She couldn't help but notice the Bistro behind him - she'd skipped lunch again, hadn't she.

"_Bonsoir_, Doctor!" said Marceau, panning the camera to take in the square he was standing in.

Her subordinate's good cheer was infectious. "Hello, Marceau. As long as you're there, can you bring me back a cheeseburger?"

The man placed a hand over his chest in mock distress. "_Madamoiselle_, you wound me! This is _France_!"

"Then bring me something deep-fried. Maybe wrapped in bacon."

"If you continue, I will be forced to give every chef in France your address, to repay the grievous insult."

Vahlen made a show of looking around her Research lab, buried deep beneath Germany, hidden behind several layers of security protocols. "Somehow, I am not worried. In the meantime, what did you call me for?"

Marceau immediately sobered up. "Doctor, we found a machine that we think belongs to HYDRA. We thought you might want to take a look at it."

Her interest piqued, the German went "show me. Jo, if you would -"

The image on her phone moved to the lab display.

"_Danke_." Vahlen watched as the Belgian moved toward the artifact. Someone had placed a banana-yellow ruler next to it, for scale, and at first the scientist couldn't identify the object. Then Marceau moved to a different angle, and Vahlen realized that once one accounted for it being torn in half by gunfire -

"Is that...a _robot_?"

**-X-**

**LL Cool J - "Mama Said Knock You Out"**

I suppose a lesser writer would make a joke here about Masumoto and the seeker. Unfortunately for anyone expecting such a joke, I am not 12.

The idea of power couplers in the hands is from Havoc-Legionaire's Halo fics "The Art of War" (deleted), and "Finishing the Fight" (ongoing).

The Achilles was originally the Enkidu, which, while fitting with the mythological strongman/hero theme, didn't fit the Greco-Roman naming scheme. I didn't commit to correcting it until I wrote Tony's presentation out in full.

Shiny and Spots relationship is kinda based on the mentorship setups of Wolverine and Kitty Pryde/Jubilee/Armor. At least, that was the idea. In practice, however, I somehow ended up writing something closer to Oded Fehr's first appearance on _Covert Affairs_, and the chemistry he had with Annie, at least filtered through my memory. It wasn't even on _purpose_.

I like Marceau. So he's probably going to die. _Game of Thrones_ fans may be familiar with this phenomenon.

One last tidbit. I was worried about sustainability, so I made a graph of the number of enemies in XCOM, plus my ideas for new or modified units, and compared it to the projected length of this fic.

_[Distant, maniacal laughter is heard.]_


	8. 08 Crawling in my skin (April Fools)

**08 Crawling in my skin**

**-XXX-**

"It's a sex robot," Vahlen explained.

Schmidt's brow wrinkled. "What?"

"A sex robot. Our best guess is that HYDRA was trying to reach the aliens...through sex." She began to unbutton her lab coat.

"That was silly," the Director said, and pulled open her blouse, the buttons popping off with a tug. "If that worked we would have figured it out already, when we made first contact."

Both women turned hungry eyes on Tony Stark, who continued to poke at his tablet. He looked up with feigned innocence. "Oh, we're at _that_ item on the agenda? I kinda wanted to discuss - _mmph_!"

Several rather busy minutes later, they were interrupted by Tony's assistant sticking her head in the door. "Hey guys, what's going on in this...oh."

"Wanna join in?" Vahlen offered, in between licks and slurps.

"Well," said Irene, shaking her curly locks loose, "I _am_ bisexual." She reached for her face.

"Leave the glasses on," Schmidt said.

Irene blinked. "Anything else?"

"We'll see."

"You know," Stark said, as Irene tried to determine an angle of attack, "I've wanted you since the moment we met."

"I'm a reasonably attractive woman. That's not exactly a surprise."

"Yes, that's it," Vahlen cried, "_Eile mich, Adolf!_"

The activity in the room stopped abruptly.

"Adolf?" Tony asked.

The German blushed. "It's...it's a common name."

"Yes," Irene said, "before _World War Two_."

"Motion to gag Vahlen?" Tony said.

"Yes," Schmidt said, coming up for air.

"Abstain," Irene said.

"Yes," Vahlen said.

"Motion carri - wait, what? Wow, you are a _freak_, aren't you?"

Jo said thoughtfully "so when you offered to get him a whip so he could punish himself..."

"I need to come to more staff meetings," Irene moaned.

"Why do you think I told the sentries to let you in?" Schmidt grunted.

Yet even in their pleasure, they felt the absence of Bradford like a gaping wound.

Not least because he gave good -

**-XXX-**

**Linkin Park - "Crawling in my skin"**

I really feel confident about the direction the fic will take from this point on. I've wanted to reach this point for a while, and I think we can both agree that it was the natural direction for the story to go in.

No, seriously, Chapter 08 will be up on Friday. And count yourself lucky. I considered making this a furry transgender transformation diaper fetish April Fools chapter _and I did not have to make any of those up_.


	9. 08 Sophisticated combat hardware

**08 It's the most sophisticated combat hardware around**

**-O-**

"Do you have any idea," said Tony Stark, "how _inefficient_ the human body is?"

Vahlen did, but played the straight woman anyway. "It seems to work well enough."

On her screen, Tony shook his head. "If the human body were a product, something someone sat down and designed, no one would buy it. It's a kludge. Either it was designed by an amateur, or God has a weird sense of humor."

"_I_ like to think so," Schmidt said from her half of the screen. "But what does that have to do with HYDRA's robots?"

"Right." Stark gathered himself. "These -" he waved a hand at the holographic protection behind him "- were _not_ designed by an amateur, just like the Doc's team figured."

"Go on."

"In fact, they're based off of _our_ tech."

"_What_?"

"Remember how some of our gear went missing during STONE TEMPLE - I mean, STONE PROPHET? I think they reverse-engineered it. We're not sure whether they're AI or piloted, though. And instead of using batteries, they went with Elerium. They've successfully managed to use the aliens' power source."

"Albeit less efficiently," the German cut in.

"At what point do you two give me the good news?"

"The drones are also armored against high temperatures -"

For just a moment, in her mind's eye, Vahlen saw fire.

"- which protected them from the backbeat when they fired in enclosed spaces."

"I'm sorry, _what_ spaces?"

"Ah, yes...Director, they fired rockets from inside vehicles, which they were presumably transported in."

"And they're tough enough to take that?"

"Not exactly. They withstood the initial blast, but were weakened, making them vulnerable to plasma and laser fire."

"Pardon?"

"Going by the security tapes," Jocasta said, "both HYDRA and the x-rays thought the robots were ours."

"_What_?"

"Let me guess," broke in Bradford, his first contribution to the conversation, "their commanders forgot to tell them about the robots."

"According to the prisoner, yes," Vahlen said. "They were told they would be supported, but they weren't told what form it would take."

"I'm pretty sure those robots were built as test models, not all-up troopers," Stark opined. "They seem built for stealth, not direct combat. I think they're supposed to be hidden in potential hotspots, then deployed when the time is right. I'm guessing they didn't drive themselves."

"Stark, are you saying HYDRA is using ninja robots?" Schmidt asked.

Tony kept his poker face. "Ninja robots with rocket launchers, yes."

"_Vunderbar_," Vahlen said. "In other news, Research has managed to analyze the infiltrators' venom, especially the coagulation. Not only can we now make our own medical kits with anti-venom, but our biofoam now sets twice as fast as it used to, as well as being much more durable. "

"What sort of weapons brought down the Ranger?" Bradford asked.

"A combination of explosive damage, and some sort of electrical discharge from the unknown weapon that disrupted the aircraft's electrical system. We've already come up with ideas on how to fix it. Which may also, hopefully, increase bandwidth for its radio and cell relays."

"Which brings us to my next point." Tony picked up his tablet, and walked out of view of the camera attached to the TV in his office. A second later, his feed switched to the tablet, showing the lab and something that looked a lot like a bomb-disposal robot. "Meet the...well, we're just calling it 'Rover'."

"Why not bipedal?" Schmidt asked.

"Because it's dumb. No, seriously, it's _dumb_. Remember what I said about kludges? Do you know how complicated it is for people to just _walk_? It's actually really hard to build and program a bipedal robot from scratch, even for my team. But these? We've had these for ages."

"Found it," said a woman from offscreen, and Stark's assistant walked into view. She hung something small and shiny on the robot, then turned to face her boss and froze. "I'm live, aren't I?"

"Yep."

"Stark, punch in on that."

"Well, you _are_ the Director," Tony muttered. He zoomed in on the glinting object, which turned out to be a dog's tag, reading, of course, "Rover". "By the way, her idea."

Schmidt's lips turned up at one corner. "I like it. Leave it on."

Stark switched cameras, to show the team his grinning face from an unflattering angle. "That's all I've got, so, unless there's something else on the agenda..."

"One last thing," the German said. She held up a bag with a long, thin object inside. "This was in the wreckage of HYDRA's jamming truck. It doesn't match any part of the vehicle or the device, and we suspect it's responsible for the explosion."

Schmidt stiffened.

"It's an arrow shaft," she explained. "Which means that I need to place a call to our sister agency."

**-/-**

Laura was late for lunch. So Eamon started without her.

She had her glasses set nearly to the side, lest dressing spatter them, and her tablet off to her left so she could hold the fork with her right hand - and oh, wouldn't that just give mother fits?

Well, besides the whole "magic transsexual" thing.

Ah, there was Laura now.

"Why are you eating a salad?" said the soldier, setting down her spinach...something. Irene might not have been able to recognize - or pronounce - half the dishes the chef made, but they were always delicious.

Irene raised an eyebrow.

"I was trying to say, there's nothing wrong with your body - uh, I mean -"

"I just felt like a salad. Are you trying to fatten me up so you can eat me?"

"Crap. You figured it out," Byler deadpanned.

Eamon found himself putting the next spoonful in his mouth in a...less than efficient manner. "Promises, promises," he murmured.

The other woman's face cycled rapidly through confusion, dawning realization, thoughtfulness, and embarrassment before she coughed awkwardly and opened her mouth -

"Laura, we need to talk about - am I interrupting something?"

"Sergeant Okoye, I presume?" Irene offered her hand, which the African took.

"Lieutenant, now. I wanted to talk to my Corporal here -"

"You never told me you got promoted!"

"They actually put her up to Sarge, then bumped her down one for that stunt in the garage. They split us off to form a new team, hence the promotion. Which we haven't named. It has to be approved by the Old Lady, of course, but we get to make the shortlist."

"Can I help?"

"No problem." Okoye sat down next to her Corporal, and looped her earbuds over her ears. "So, where are you from?"

_County Cork, Ireland_.

"Chicago. And before you ask, Chinese-Indian for mum, and Black-Greek for dad."

"_Yoh_, girl, you're just a walking diversity quota, aren't you?"

Irene choked on her salad.

"Sorry, I didn't -"

"No, not that. It's just that..._I_ had some similar thoughts recently. So, have any ideas for your crew of merry, fresh out of BaseSec rookies?"

"We were discussing animal names. Predators, like sharks."

"Like Mako Squad," Laura said.

"Is it _Mah_-ko, or _May_-ko?" Irene inquired.

"Good question."

"How about...Hammerhead?"

"I think that may be too long for a call sign."

"Tiger?" Okoye suggested.

Irene, giggling: "_Blood_ tiger?"

Laura snorted. "Tiger blood?"

"Sabertooth?" said the El-Tee.

"How about just Saber?" asked the engineer.

Laura frowned. "Katana?"

Okoye nixed the idea, emphatically. "Only if we want our team to sound like it's been named by a twelve-year old boy. And more than a few girls." She raised a hand. "Yes, yours truly."

"How about Team Rainbows and Kittens?" Laura said.

"_Please_ stop. Just...stop."

Okoye's music changed to something harder, more driving.

"Really, ma'am? Please don't tell me you listen to that generic teen angst crap," Laura said.

"They...they have a lot of variety!" the South African huffed.

"Okay, the _music_ does. But the actual lyrics are always the same vague defiance-n'-pain. I defy you to find a song that could be about anything from your parents grounding you to not getting an iPad Micro for your birthday. You've heard of pre-packaged pop groups? This is generic _aaangst_."

Clearly, Laura had been bottling this up for a while.

"There's nothing wrong with consistency -"

"Big difference between 'consistency' and singing the same song for a decade."

"_The good face pain, but the great embrace it_," Irene murmured.

"Did you say something?" asked the squad leader.

"Nothing, just...- wait. Rewind a few seconds. And give me an earbud."

Laura stared. "You aren't planning to use Linkin Park for _inspiration_, are y -"

"_Quiet_." Under her breath; "_Each word gets lost in the -_"

**-/-**

"Ladies and gentlemen," Okoye said to her fresh-faced recruits, "Welcome to Echo-3."

Laura didn't _quite_ manage to hide her wince.

**-/-**

"How are you liking the new suit, Sam?" Flint asked.

Private Asami Masumoto looked up. She had been checking the manual for the new medkits, and liked the part when she could use less of the medspray. And now Flint, the _gaijin_, was trying to make conversation.

"It's okay," she mumbled. _Go away_.

"What about the drop pack?"

"It's fine." To make up for the weeks she had missed in counselling, she had spent twice as much time on the Playground with the new equipment than she need to to be certified.

No more weakness.

No more failure.

"It chafes a little around the shoulders on me. It's it okay for you?"

"I'm _fine_."

"Just checking, Masumoto-sama."

The Japanese woman winced. "Ah. You found out."

"Well, not on _purpose_. I was just wondering what your last name meant -"

"And the first result was my family's company. And then you learned about the girl who wanted to be a soldier, like the sticking-up nail."

"Sorry, what?"

"Japanese saying. Never mind." She took a deep breath. "I wanted to get _away_ from my past." Her eyes were pleading, now, and she hated that she had to do this, that he had forced her to it. "I just want to be plain old Asami. Or just Sam."

"Okay. Sorry."

Hale frowned in their direction. "What are you two whispering about back there?"

"Nothing," they both chorused, like a pair of guilty schoolchildren. Internally, Sam winced.

The Canadian looked at them sidelong- was that a _smirk_? - but let it go.

"Drop in five," declared the Ranger's pilot.

"Ready?" Pena asked.

"Ready!" the team chorused.

"All right! Time for that voodoo we do!"

**-/-**

"Director," said the gravelly-voiced man in the shadows.

Schmidt nodded at the man on the screen in her office. "Councillor."

The man paused to choose his words. "After the failure of your last extraction mission, we were..._reluctant_ to employ you in that role again. We considered calling upon your sister agency -"

"With all due respect, sir, SHIELD isn't exactly cut out for open combat."

"And XCOM was never intended for escort duty. Captain America was never intended to be a single soldier. Do you understand?"

The Director's eyes narrowed. "I...see your point."

"I want you to tell me what happened, in your own words."

"Voodoo Squad dropped in, using Development's new drop packs. They have a smaller signature than the Rangers, and stealth was critical."

"I understand that they are one-use only."

"Yes, but reusable. However, once they're removed, they go into a security mode. This keeps them from being examined or disassembled. We can even remotely trigger a self-destruct."

"I am glad to see you making efficient use of Council resources, Director."

"Thank you."

**-/-**

Sgt. Carlock was actually pretty cooperative, once he understood who they were. The combat engineer took the SMG the soldiers handed him gratefully.

"So, where's our ride?" said the Royal Engineer, as he chambered a round in his borrowed Kriss.

"We are the ride," Hale responded, and halted at the door to the building's garage. "Jo, any contracts on the security cameras?"

"None visible. But I have a lot of blindspots."

"Your call, boss."

Sergeant Pena frowned. "Jo, Mark every van or SUV, put it on our HUDs. I'm on hot-wiring duty. Actually, Jo, see if any have remote start."

**-/-**

"The team acquired vehicles, then attempted to leave the garage."

"And that was when they came under fire?"

"Not exactly."

**-/-**

The ball went up when Flint got too close to a fire extinguisher as he was edging toward the exit to check their route.

Normally, this wouldn't be a problem. But when the innocuous red canister exploded into a dozen whipping, lashing, barbed tendrils that wrapped around his body, which then proceeded to pump large amounts of electricity into him, well, that was a problem.

**-/-**

"At this point, HYDRA forces revealed themselves, and began to put suppressing fire into the garage exit. I surmise that the drop packs were an unknown factor for them, that we arrived before they were able to set up. To prevent them sneaking around to other entrances and flanking us, we were forced to take...unorthodox measures."

**-/-**

"Sasha, would it kill you to remember to go 'Danger Close' for _once_?" Mundy griped.

The Russian shrugged as the micro-rocket launcher pointing over his shoulder retracted itself. The Achilles' stability systems unlocked, and he adjusted his stance. "That is for fire support."

"What, _now_ you care about procedure? Just give us _some_ kind of warning."

"Sarge, how are you?" Pena said.

"What, this?" Carlock stared at the stump where his leg used to be, something vaguely resembling a grin on his face. "I've had worse shaving cuts."

"He's non-responsive, Sergeant Pena," Masumoto reported from where she bent over Flint. She had used her medical override to limit his suit to baseline human strength, which prevented her from having to fight her way through the augmented twitches. "Mission-killed, at least. The medkit doesn't work on -" she swallowed, grateful she couldn't taste the ozone that was probably in the air "- electrocution."

**-/-**

"Chief Stark said that the carbon nanotubes used in the suits are a good conductor. This allows them to spread the damage from plasma and laser weapons over a larger area, but also leaves them especially vulnerable to electrical attacks."

"Were the cameras in the garage tapped?"

"Jo?"

"Yes, they were, Councillor."

"That weapon may have been a test."

"Well, we'll be sure to stay away from any strange fire extinguishers in the future."

The Councillor didn't laugh. "Did you collect the weapon?"

"Ah, no. Pena nixed the idea, even after it had been destroyed, on the grounds that it might be booby-trapped. The team then piled Masumoto and the wounded into one SUV, with Pena driving, and the rest of the squad into a van."

A deep breath.

"We didn't realize that HYDRA wasn't the real threat."

**-/-**

They had almost made it to the highway when Schmidt called. "Voodoo, be advised, we have some sort of unidentified aircraft approaching your position. Jo is trying to get a better picture of it, but -"

She stopped abruptly, and Pena heard the distinct sound of someone talking with their mouth over the microphone.

"Judging from the footage from the drone and Ranger, it may be an alien landing craft of some desc -"

Whatever she had been about to say next was drowned out by the street erupting in a burst of green fire. The Argentinean swerved to avoid it, and he could hear Hale, driving the van, swearing in French over the line.

He got his car under control, and aimed it toward the on-ramp. "Control, call me crazy, but I'm _pretty_ sure it's a gunship."

**-/-**

"Our drone was unable to keep up, and I didn't want to use the Ranger to attempt to draw them off, since it would risk their exit. Voodoo evaded fire for several minutes and miles, until -"

**-/-**

A stray thought came to Pena; **turn**.

Good idea.

**-/-**

"By the time we realised that Pena had been...compromised, Alpha had already taken the off-ramp. Bravo followed. Alpha's red-light running caused several collisions, but with Jocasta remoting - and then monitoring - Pena's suit, they were able to get back onto the highway. With the on-ramp blocked, Bravo was forced onto the side streets."

"There were civilian casualties."

Schmidt didn't flinch. "Yes, sir. In addition to the collateral from the highway, when they saw the pileup, Bravo cut hard left through a parking lot. Two civilians were killed."

Their names were Annette and Gavin Saint-Michel, they had gone to get the Happy Meal with the toys from the new Spongebob movie, and they'd be visiting her, along with hundreds of others, in the dark hours of the morning.

Ah, the perks of the job.

"Tactically, this meant that they had less speed, but more cover, while Alpha could make better time, while being more exposed."

"And the aliens were forced to choose."

"Unfortunately, they choose correctly."

**-/-**

"It's still on us!" Masumoto yelled.

"Control, we need an exit!" Pena said.

"Working on it," came Schmidt's glacially calm voice.

"Sarge," said Mundy's voice over the radio, "can you get that gunship to fly straight?"

"Sure! Why not! I'll just _stop and ask them_!"

"Our next ramp back onto the highway is in thirty seconds! I think I can get them to break contact, but we need you to line them up for us!"

The squad leader grinned at nothing, his face stretching into a rictus. "I thought I was the one who came up with the crazy plans!"

"_Boss!_"

"Do it! You'd better be right, or you're explaining to _la jefa_ how your plan got us killed!"

The marksman paused. "You have to admit, it's a pretty cool way to go."

"True."

**-/-**

The SUV stopped juking, and the alien gunship paused. The humans had proven tenacious and cunning in the past and it would not do to let them escape. It moved to short range, and -

The second human vehicle roared into the roadway. Behind the ship, with a clear vector on its vulnerable aft -

Mundy pointed Flint's Orion out the windshield of the van, and fired. Again and again, at anything that glowed or looked vulnerable.

The ship shuddered. Lamed, wounded, it tilted, bleeding speed in order to get away from the human Fists' weapon. It passed over the van, and tried to stabilize, to bring its weapons to bear on the rear of the vehicle.

One of the larger Fists was there, waiting for it.

They couldn't know it, but he had a grin on his face.

One of the modules exclusive to the Achilles Heavy Mobility Platform was the Hephaestus heat-dispersal system. Armor plates opened up on the rear, turning the armor into a massive heatsink, allowing certain modified laser weapons to increase their fire rate. And with his new Manticore, an upscaled, squad automatic weapon version of the Chimera which could run off of the suit's couplers, he could effectively become a turret.

Of course, the user sacrificed all mobility, and was more vulnerable to attack from the rear, and would be rather uncomfortable for anyone trying to approach from that direction, but that was of little concern when your target lined itself up so nicely.

And that was why Sasha Dunayevsky was smiling.

He spoke to them with bloody fire.

**-/-**

"After that, the craft broke contact. We don't know where it went, and haven't had a chance to collect witness statements. Our men then proceeded to our hastily arranged exfil point, boarded the Ranger, and left. Sgt. Carlock will be treated and released anywhere you like. You may even be able to save his leg."

The Councillor was silent. "We would like to say more about your performance, Director, but we'll have to resume this conversation later."

Schmidt blinked. "I'm sorry." Then, getting very, _very_ close to breaking an unspoken rule; "do you have someplace to be?"

Was that a smile on the face of the man in the shadows? "No. But you do."

As if on cue, a notification popped up in the corner of the screen.

"We'll be in touch, Director." And his feed cut off.

The American stared at the screen for a few more seconds. "Jo?"

"You need to be in the Situation Room, Director. I'll explain on the way."

Schmidt picked up her earpiece. "On my way."

**-/-**

To her surprise, Bradford was there too, his face still covered in that scrubby beard he had been sporting in their last videoconference. She nodded at him as she came in.

"Morning, Director."

"Morning. _Which_ three cities?"

"Moscow, Tokyo, and Madrid."

"This isn't like them. They've never launched simultaneous abductions before -"

"These aren't abductions," Jo cut in. "They're just destroying and killing, indiscriminately." She brought up three video feeds, full of fire, and fear, and death.

"Is this...an invasion?" Schmidt wondered out loud, then answered her own question. "No. Too small a beachhead. Then what?"

"Terrorism?" one of the techs suggested, then shrank under her boss's icy blue gaze.

"Good idea."

"What?"

"This could be a terror mission. I think that's most likely, but we don't know much about alien psychology. For all we know, this could be their mating session, and this is their version of flowers and chocolate."

A few people chuckled. Good.

"Get me Voodoo."

A strained-sounding Pena answered.

"There's been a major attack in Moscow. Voodoo, I'm not ordering you to do anything. If you think think you're too tired to handle it -"

"We're on it, ma'am."

Schmidt had a prickly feeling at the corners of her eyes. She blinked it away. "Thank you." She cleared her dry throat.

"Ma'am?" said the pilot, "we can get there, but we'll be at bingo fuel, or close to it."

"You can siphon from the other two Rangers."

Beat. "Ma'am?"

"Don't worry. I wouldn't put you on the field without covering our bases." She switched to the intercom. "Schmidt to all squads. Bases Loaded. I say again, _Bases Loaded_. This is not a drill."

Bradford was looking at her. "All three teams?"

"I'd send four, if I had them." Schmidt flexed her neck. "I'll try to liaise with the local authorities." A glance at her XO, and then, _sotto voce_; "if you feel you're up to running the op."

"I do," he replied, in the same tone.

"Good to have you back." To herself; "_Per ardua._"

She looked at the feeds of the other two cities burning, darkened them with a few taps, and tried to push them out of her mind.

The Saint-Michels were going to have lots of company.

**-X-**

**Crysis 2 Story Trailer**

Irene's quote is the last words of _The Vorkosigan Saga: Shards of Honor_, by Lois McMaster Bujold. And yes, best as I can tell, that's her real name. The books are, hands down, my favorite sci-fi series, ever.

I'd like to point out that Laura is being a bit harsh about Linkin Park. And Okoye is being a bit, well, blind to their flaws. And that Irene wouldn't've been _nearly_ as helpful if she'd known about the El-Tee's remarks during GLASS ENGINE.

I have not figured out Echo's cheesy rallying cry yet. Anyone?


	10. 09 If the sky comes falling down for you

**09 If the sky comes falling down for you**

**-O-**

The dashcam video shows a long stretch of early morning road. Conditions are normal in Moscow for early winter or late fall, and the driver is attempting to pass some sort of trailer when green bolts come lancing out of the sky, striking with an earth-shaking boom. The cars in view mostly stop.

After a few minutes of silence, the sound of the door opening is heard, and the driver gets out, to stare at the impact site. He says something in Russian, asking the other drivers if it is "them".

More plasma falls, moving toward the camera. The onlookers' discussion grows tenser, more panicked. Several break off and return to their cars. Out of view of the camera, there is an impact. The driver returns to his car, swearing, praying. He hurriedly brings his car around to face the direction it came, and begins to drive.

Ahead of him, something falls from the sky and strikes a building nearby. Though the impact is out of sight, the shockwave washes over the road, sending the car into a skid.

When it stops, the camera is pointed off to the left of the road. The driver is heard cursing his car as he tries to restart the engine. A green glow flashes offscreen, and the driver pauses, before trying to start the car more frantically. As the flashes grow stronger and more frequent, the car finally pulls off, across the park next to the road.

An indistinct object falls near his path, rapidly blinking. He attempts to swerve aside, but the object explodes, throwing the vehicle through the air. It lands on its side, the camera knocked askew, pointing at the driver. He begins to cough as smoke begins to fill the car, looks behind him, curses, and attempts to unbuckle himself. Upon succeeding, he looks around, presumably trying to decide whether he wants to go through the windshield or the passenger side window.

At this point, as best as anyone could tell, the fire reached the fuel tank.

The video ends abruptly.

**-/-**

"Here's your AO," Bradford said.

"Sir," replied Pena, "that's a lot of ground to cover."

"You'll have backup from the Russian military and police. We're loading the translator kernel to your shirts right now. Your objective is to secure this area, to provide a green zone for civilians and officials. In the event that the outer perimeter falls, you need to prepare two concentric fallback positions. Only after you have the area should you venture out to pick up more people."

"Roger. And Central?"

"Yes?"

"Good to have you back."

"Thanks."

Bradford signed off, and asked the Ops staff "how are we on drone coverage?"

"They're dragging their feet. They promise they'll have choppers in the air shortly" someone said.

"Those will just make bigger targets!"

"They're probably thinking that the aliens haven't used any AA."

"Until a few hours ago, they never used any ground-attack aircraft either." He took an irritated ship of his coffee. "Do they not trust us with their drones?"

"Quite possibly, sir."

Bradford sighed. "Of course. I promised our men support from the natives," he said, as he turned to his CO. "Please don't make a liar out of me."

"Try to pin them or get them in small spaces, then set them on fire. Use Molotovs, liquor, anything that burns. If they're out in the open, use cars and blunt trauma, especially to the joints, if you can. If you have rockets or incendiaries, anything that does barotrauma or fire damage, use those. Best of all is to bunker down someplace inside, away from windows, where they won't see you. And if the bugs attack anyone, they may be...infected. We're not sure how they'll behave, but if they're non-responsive, shoot them."

Schmidt listened to the Russian on the other end of the line, and her brow furrowed.

"Because if you _don't_, the aliens are going to roll right over your men and everyone you're trying to protect! If you're not willing to listen, at least _stay out of the way_!"

It was impossible to slam a headset, but the Director's disconnect had a decidedly peevish air. She pinched the bridge of her nose, like she had had a sudden, stabbing pain, and let out an "_urgh_" low enough for only Bradford to hear.

"I didn't know you spoke Russian."

"Friend of mine taught me."

"Want some coffee?"

"Thanks, but...it'll pass." She let her hand drop, opened her eyes. "This one was just a particularly bad idiot. Jo, can you prepare an information packet that you can squirt to any folks on the ground with functioning cell phones or tablets? And to the rookies? And to the other two cities?"

"Kind of busy right now!" said the AI, in a stained voice.

"Right. I'll ask Research."

**-/-**

Kat's phone rang. She quickly picked up the call, before it attracted some of the aliens.

"Hello?" she hissed. "Who is this?"

"Katerina Volkov?"

"Yes! Who is this?"

"Overwatch. The street is clear. You can make it to the corner safely."

Kate peeked. Sure enough, nothing but silence.

"When you reach the corner, stop."

She scurried down the street, stopped at the corner.

"Why?"

"Wait for it..."

Gunfire ripped past the intersection, bolts of green flame exchanged with good old fashioned lead. Kate crouched, trying to look as invisible as possible. As the large, military-looking vehicle and its on-foot escorts rumbled by, someone yelled.

"Head left."

"Shouldn't I follow them?"

"They're engaging the enemy. Not a good idea. Down two blocks."

A little way down the street, the young woman found a trailer shaking and making strange noises.

"Overwatch? There's something strange going on."

There was a pause. "I can't get good audio. I hate to ask you this, but...can you get closer?"

"Do...do I have to?"

"No. No you don't. Corner after next."

There was something sour in Kat's throat. She nodded, then approached the trailer, her phone held out in front of her like a cross against a vampire.

"That's a horse trailer."

Closer to it, the young woman could hear a whickering sound. Did horses whicker? Was that the name? And..._skittering_...

In the direction the soldiers had gone, there was a dull thump, like an explosion. Kat jumped.

"What was that?"

"Not important. You need to get moving. _Now_."

She reached the next corner, and Kat asked "How are you doing this?"

"I work for the NSA. Turns out the aliens have really weak email passwords."

Kat giggled.

"There's a group of other civ - I mean, _people_ who'll be in view in a few seconds. Link up with them, and you can all head to the safe zone."

"Thank you. What's your real name?"

"Jo."

"Jo, I hope we get to meet someday."

"Me too."

**-/-**

"Director, remember how we thought that those Chryssalids might infect humans?" Jo asked.

"Yes," Schmidt said curtly. "What about it?"

"It's not just humans."

"Got it." Schmidt switched channels, and began to warn the Russians.

**-/-**

The coupler was awkward.

Central had suggested they use them, given that they were probably in for the long haul, unless the Russians happened to have a few heavily armed platoons of Spetsnaz in an apartment building somewhere. Heavily armed Spetsnaz.

For now, XCOM, and whatever they could scrape up, _was_ the line.

Hale shifted uncomfortably. Pena had immediately detached Sam to oversee the medics. No medkits. In fact, the "medics" were a motley crew of military corpsmen, a few civvie doctors, and folks with first-aid training. In fact, the Canadian was pretty sure at least one of the docs was a plastic surgeon.

At least Carlock and Flint were safe.

Relatively speaking.

Which left Voodoo to deal with the officers, millionaires, and people expecting Pena to float down on a cloud of fairy sparkles and solve all their problems from lack of communication to stubbed toes.

To his credit, he actually gave it a shot. Right up until the second time Central asked what he was doing, at which point he pulled his sidearm and suggested the Commissar solution.

Unfortunately, she didn't see it herself. It was relayed by the delighted Dunayevsky, who Sarge had told to stand at his right shoulder and help with any translation problems. And, perhaps, to look intimidating. As it turned out, a drawn gun was pretty unambiguous.

"Mundy, Hale," Pena growled, "any luck finding that mortar fire?"

"No, boss."

Mundy added "Sure would help if we had oversight."

"The old lady is working on it. Bradford says five more minutes and he"ll retask."

"Director Schmidt versus Russian bureaucracy," Sasha rumbled. "I would like to see that."

Everyone laughed. Including Pena, which turned into a shout to get _away_ from his Skyranger or _madre de dios_ he would shoot -

**-/-**

"Got a news chopper on the line, sir! They want an exclusive interview."

"Say yes," Schmidt cut in. Off Bradford's quizzical look; "We don't actually have to _give_ it them."

He smiled. As much as he ever smiled with his game face on. "I'm putting Voodoo in charge of various Russian squads. We're supposed to be force multipliers, which means we have to divide. And yes, I _am_ aware of the irony."

**-/-**

For some reason, Russia's own satellites were acting up, meaning there was no way for them to pinpoint the locations of the enemy fire support. XCOM had no assets with line of sight, and even the chopper was having difficulty. No one, not even Jocasta, had spotted any ground units or gunships, and attempts to back-trace the ballistic trajectories indicated that either both her and Research had flawed math, or their unknown enemy was highly mobile.

The green death that rained down on the city might as well have come out of thin air.

Which lead to a cold equation; XCOM and local forces had to subtract the alien spotting units from the AO, or they would lose it, and a great deal of the rest of the city as well, before the units presumably became too spread out for mutual support. They could not allow foot units to break contact, or they would get enough distance to call in fire support, and a paucity of snipers meant that striking from range was not a very viable tactic.

Which meant that Russian police and cops were going toe-to-toe with an opposing force which, from all indicators, had been optimized for walking up to spitting distance and kicking their foes in the teeth.

It was insane.

But they weren't alone.

**-/-**

"Which one of you is the fastest runner?" Dunayevsky asked.

There were a few seconds of silence. Reluctantly, one of the soldiers in front of him raised his hand.

"What's your name?"

"Khostov, sir," said the young private, in the universal tone of a soldier who knew his superior was about to volunteer him.

"Khostov, I would like you to be bait."

"Yes, sir."

The larger man popped his mask, looked the boy in the eye.

"This is voluntary. If you don't, I will ask the next slowest."

"That would be Kenin. But most of us owe him money."

"Bad choice, then." He grinned. "The bugs are acting as screens for the heavy units, the Mutons. If we attack them directly, the insects will reinforce them and surround us. If we try to attack the bugs, they will do their best to tie us up, and Mutons will reinforce them. But if a brave, handsome young soldier drew off the roaches by pretending to be separated from his squad..."

"And then we'll take on the spotters?" someone in the crowd said.

"Yes, once we have lured them onto the killing ground. Good thing is, they won't call fire support for just one man if they see you luring the bugs."

Young Khostov still looked a little concerned.

"Your comrades have every reason to be concerned with your safety." Pause for comedic effect.  
>"You owe them money, right?"<p>

Snickers from the audience.

"As for you, these roaches don't like fire. Any breakable bottle you can find that can hold something flammable, use it to make Molotovs. That includes liquor. I am sorry, gentlemen, but you will have to face the rest of the day sober."

The men chuckled.

It was not so different from teaching, really.

**-/-**

"That's right, gentlemen," Mundy murmured, cycling the bolt to clear a jam. "Suck it down."

He was perched on an upstairs window at a minor government building, with a few mid-level officials huddling in the cubicle farm downstairs. They didn't have enough men, or firepower, or collective experience to make it to a safer zone, so Sarge had tasked him to sit tight and hold off the x-rays until backup or a ride arrived.

His own Chiron and Flint's Orion were nearby, but he was using a commandeered Russian sniper rifle, to save ammo.

Someone was coming up the steps in a hurry. If they were an assassin, they would be quieter, Mundy reasoned, and if they were X-rays that had gotten past the perimeter, he would have heard gunfire. He didn't turn around until the person came to a heel-clicking stop.

"Sir! There's been -"

"One, _don't salute in a a battle zone_. Two, just call me Foster. Now, what seems to be the problem?"

"Sir! One of the civilians seems to have gone crazy! She's shooting at me when I try to get in the room!"

Mundy stiffened. "Infiltrator."

"Sir?"

He reached for the heavier firepower. "Show me."

As it turned out, a bunch of bureaucrats weren't much match for a poison-spitting, genetically engineered alien.

Mundy poked his Bullseye around the doorframe. He had precisely a half-second of vision through the linked scope before there was a loud bang, it gave him an error message, and the rifle jerked in his hands. He pulled it back and regarded the now-shattered optic disgustedly.

"Well, the good news is that she's limited to using bullets. Bad news, that's going to be just fine for killing the last of 'em in there. Petrov, right?"

"Yes, sir."

"She came along, all disheveled and helpless, saying she was some kind of brass, and you boys just put her in with the others, right?"

"Yes. But why would she want to kill these officials? They are not important."

"That is a very good question for people above our pay grade to worry about. Right now, we need to stop her." He dialed his - Flint's - Orion up to max, and prepped a ping. "When I shoot, you breach. Got it?"

"Yes." Petrov readied his assault rifle.

"Semi-auto, kid. They're not that much tougher than us. Just stronger, faster, crack shots, and they spit poison."

"Sounds like my mother-in-law, sir. Ready."

Even if Mundy missed, he hoped the shot would distract the alien long enough for the kid to take her down.

First he Pinged.

Then he pointed the rifle directly at the wall, and hoped he didn't hit a beam.

**-/-**

Nobody was talking much on the ride over.

Washington had gotten onto the Skyranger over Dr. Rao's express protest. He hadn't met the standard recovery time, and to be honest, his leg was still twinging, but it wasn't anything he couldn't work through.

She had still been in the hangar bay when the ramp closed, and Scope imagined he could feel her glaring at him as they took off. Was she still peering into his soul, even hundreds of miles away?

Probably not.

Mac was doing some sort of adjustment on his Orion, the magazine removed and sitting in his lap. Viking was listening to either death metal, or pop music that was imitating it. Shiny seemed to be napping. No, wait, his lips were moving; he was praying. Arnadottir had her eyes closed, her hands on her knees, and her breathing was steady and controlled. And the rookie -

Pulaski was staring at the floor, his XM25 pointed up past his body.

"It gets easier after the first time," Washington said.

The other American's head snapped up, and he swallowed before giving a sickly smile. "Huh?"

"It gets easier." The ex-Marine smiled.

"Been here long?"

"Actually, this is just my second mission."

"Really? What happened on your first one?"

"A big, green alien ambushed me, beat me up, and nearly killed me with its bare hands."

Pulaski swallowed.

"Don't worry. We're probably just going to run into the giant bugs that lay their eggs in people, and then have their babies burst out of their bodies, 'Alien'-style."

"Don't forget the invisible robot hunter-squids," Viking chipped in.

"I know _I_ won't," Arnadottir muttered.

The rookie's eyes were the size of dinner plates. Washington decided to let up. "Don't worry about it. Check your briefing packet, stick with us, do what we tell you, and you'll be fine."

There was a slight thump as the Ranger's drone launched.

The rookie nodded.

"Insertion in five," the pilot called.

"All right." Nilsson stood up. "_X-rays check in_ -"

**-/-**

"Director?" said Irene, "I have an idea."

**-/-**

A few seconds later, every unoccupied cell phone in the AO began to blare the Russian National Anthem.

This had several effects. It distracted the aliens and heartened the defenders. Those from Russia, anyway.

Most importantly, when combined with the receivers in those phone, it acted as an ersatz Ping, giving the XCOM forces targeting data.

Including the arriving ones who had used the drop packs to quietly land on rooftops.

**-/-**

On a rooftop, a Frenchwoman with a rocket launcher smiled.

"Copy that, ma'am," said Private Marius, of XCOM's Echo Squad. "Moving."

**-/-**

Hotshot had come up with the idea. Two of the rookies were the proof-of-concept for the Shock Recon trooper, or as they were commonly known, the Alpha Strike. These high-mobility forces were given a rocket or grenade launcher to scout enemy clusters, and then eliminate them. Their Herakles' modules were chosen to let them find and sneak up on their foes, and then to scamper as fast as possible while other forces mopped up the rest.

But the aliens weren't morons. In addition to deploying their own flankers, they sought cover and stopped clustering. This made it harder for them to mutually support each other, of course, and thus the human forces gained a slight advantage, especially since the x-ray fire support was much less precise than the strikers. This left the two forces to try to and strike a balance between too close, and too far apart.

Not that the humans went unscathed.

**-/-**

Khostov rounded the corner "it's not -" he gasped "- it's not -"

A pair of Mutons appeared a few feet behind him.

Sasha blinked. Was it the lack of sleep? No, they were still there. He was grateful that the men couldn't hear what came out of his mouth next. Followed by an audible "get back!"

In those few seconds, the big aliens had caught up to the soldier. One grabbed him by the arm, then the neck, then held him up as a human shield, cautiously scanning the buildings. Its partner was carefully checking their route, as they retreated in good order.

He had counted on the Chryssalids being so target-focused they didn't notice they were walking into an ambush, but the big guys had much better situational awareness. It was eerie, really, seeing them act so...human. They knew that the Russians wouldn't fire, but if they fired themselves, "the ball might go up", to use the American aphorism. A Mexican standoff.

The man from XCOM targeted them with his remaining rockets, and then frowned. The blast radius would kill Khostov. And he wasn't exactly surgical with his SAW.

Time to take a chance.

He stepped into the sun with hands empty. The second Muton bought his weapon up, but didn't fire.

"Sir -" said the captive, before he was cut off by a squeeze on his neck.

"I'm not here to trade," Dunayevsky said. Then he dropped into an aggressive stance, pumped his speakers to maximum, and _roared_.

The two aliens looked at each other. Then the first one tossed Khostov aside - something _cracked_ as he hit a car and slid to the ground bonelessly - passed his weapon to his comrade, and strode forward to meet the challenge.

At which point the rocket turret popped up over his shoulder and opened fire.

Along with the laser SAW Sasha had left with a Russian soldier. He had graciously decided to stay out of its line of fire to the second Muton.

Then the rest of the squad chipped in.

The first rocket was targeted at the ground between the two x-rays, stunning both. He sent another one at the gun-toting Muton, and when it died, its weapon detonated; the denial system, as usual. This also set off the first creature's weapon, and the triple hit killed the second, as well.

Just to be sure, Dunayevsky caved in its skull with a stomp. Then he looked to the private.

Shame Khostov hadn't seen that.

Nor would he ever see anything else again.

**-/-**

"Back up the car!" shouted Lieutenant Smirnov.

His command, to dignify it with the term, was a motley crew of lost cops, lost soldiers, and civilians who had just picked up weapons and followed him.

The bug, freed from the pressure, collapsed to the ground and struggled to its feet.

"Burn it!"

Two people came running up with bottles in their hands, and confusion ensued when they both tried to give way to the other.

"_Both_ of you throw!"

The alien screamed as it caught fire, despite lacking any visible mouth, and the rest of the team dispatched it with small-arms fire.

Smirnov tapped his scavenged Bluetooth headset. "Taken care of, Overwatch. What next?"

"Two of the big green guys are going to come out of that ba -"

The store's frontage collapsed under the attentions of the pair of angry aliens. Unfortunately, a cop from the local station was caught by surprise -

"Bloody - _Pull your men back_!"

He gave the order, then crouched behind a car himself. A peek through the window showed that the contacts were picking targets.

Like him, for instance.

Plasma fire smacked against the car, and flames began to lick at the bodywork. Smirnov gritted his teeth and scrambled to the next car before the first one exploded.

"Overwatch, how do we hit them? What are they weak to?"

"High explosives."

"We don't _have_ any!"

"I do."

And that's when the grenades started raining down.

When they stopped, one of the big green guys was a pulped mass, and the other was barely alive.

Smirnov looked up. On the rooftop was a figure in strange-looking body armor. He was just reloading an odd-looking weapon, and when he caught the Lieutenant's gaze, he gave an ironic salute. Then he vanished.

The Russian soldier shook his head. "Overwatch, I don't suppose any of your friends were in Canada a few hours ago?"

"I can neither confirm nor deny."

"Ah." He drew his pistol.

"Careful. Their weapons explode when they die. Assuming it's still intact."

"Noted." He kicked the big guy's strange weapon clear, warned his folks to stay back, and put a 9mm bullet in the back of the thing's skull. It stopped moving, and there was an ammonia-like scent that made the officer wonder if it had voided its bowels.

He rubbed his eyes, and wondered if there was someplace where he could find a hot cup of coffee.

"There's a civilian bottleneck three blocks west," said the woman on the phone.

"Got it. Let's move, folks!"

He holstered his handgun, collected an AK from the dead cop, crossed himself, and thanked God, the Blessed Virgin, and all the saints for this "Overwatch" lady that was helping them out. If he ever met her, he'd kiss her, marry her, bed her.

In whatever order she preferred.

**-/-**

Pena had been in worse situations, he knew he had. He just couldn't recall any right now.

Hale had been wounded by shrapnel from an exploding car, and despite having a medkit applied to her, Pena had still ordered her back to the aid station, over her protests. Her extremely strident protests. Some of the Russians had looked apprehensive at the confrontation, probably wondering what they'd do if Pena had ordered them to "escort" her away.

Luckily, the x-rays seemed to be out of their ridiculously overpowered plasma grenades. Which just left their other ridiculously overpowered plasma weapons.

Which still left the rest of them pinned down.

They had dropped a Muton by sheer volume of fire. The street was too narrow for flanking, and the Kongs had strong frontal armor. Right now, the Russians were on one side of the street, and Pena was on the other. They were getting pushed closer and closer to the outer "line", and the Mutons' presence meant no civilians would be taking the route to safety.

Objects arced in from behind them, and Pena had a half second of wondering if they had been flanked, before realizing that not only were they not glowing green, but they had landed well out in front of BLUFOR. Then they erupted into dense clouds of smoke.

"Ah," Pena sighed. "Backup."

His radio went "Not exactly, sir. Delivery. Seven o'clock."

"It's _Sarge_." He turned to his rear, to find a rookie jogging up with a case.

"Compliments of Chief Stark."

"This is it? It's done?"

"He said something about 'beta testing' and not to scratch the paint. Say your name."

"Alberto Pena."

The case beeped, and opened. Pena, with some reverence, reached in and grabbed the grip. After a second or two, he picked up the color-coded magazines as well, slotted one of each in.

His Ajax's display blinked, before a progress bar labelled "FIRMWARE UPDATE" appeared. Two seconds later, the AR display vanished, to be replaced by a slightly different one. The most obvious change was the addition of another ammo counter, with an indicator for his currently selected magazine and type. Left was armor-piercing sabot, right was flechette.

Both were incendiary.

The Argentinian locked the rest of his mags to his armor and watched as the reserve ammo counter went up. After a moment of thought, he dropped his MAUL and its ammo in the case, locked it. Best not to have Fletcher on his case for losing it.

"All right," he said. "What's your name?"

"Private Alberto Silva, Echo Squad."

_There's a pair of us, don't tell._ "Silva, I need you to go over there, and tell the Russians to pull back, but to make it sound and look like they're running away."

"Look?"

"They've got some kind of a spotter. Those monkeys were waiting for us. If they act as a distraction, their overwatch might not notice me sitting here waiting to take the green guys in the back."

"What if there are too many to take?"

"That's your job. The second I start engaging, turn around and start shooting at them."

"Got it. But isn't that risky?"

Pena stared at him. "How did you even _get_ this job?"

Silva blushed. "I'll...I'll go now."

Pena nodded. Silva scampered. Pena chambered the weapon.

Officially, it was called the Hestia, after the goddess of the hearth. Upon learning this later, some of the men and women of XCOM tried to make "Heartbreaker" happen, but by the end of the day, the nickname was basically locked in.

Spitfire.

**-/-**

"Ladies and gentlemen," Lieutenant "Shrimp" Okoye announced, trying to look confident, "you are about to get a crash course in fighting aliens."

The new rookie, Hertz, did his best to imitate her relaxed-but-alert attitude. He was walking the perimeter, since the cops they were addressing were clearly too scared to remember to do it themselves. As for herself, her back was to a wall. Hopefully, if anything came along, they would gasp or something. Fleeing civilians were passing through the square, some in cars, often with a cell phone to their ears, but none seemed to be willing to hang around the mysterious soldiers in the metal suits.

Good.

"If you've read the data packets you may have gotten, one of the most dangerous enemies in an urban environment is what we call the Chryssalid. Imagine one of those things from Aliens crossed with a spider."

A few members of their audience shuddered.

"Yes, it is exactly as bad as it sounds," Hertz said. "These insects are vulnerable to blunt trauma. Bullets, less s -"

Some of the cops began to gasp and point at the wall behind the XCOM trooper. She didn't hesitate a second before diving forward.

As Shrimp rolled onto her back to face the contact, it occurred to her that _of course_ one of the bugs would show up to give a demonstration.

It scuttled down the wall, and some of the cops were already drawing their weapons. But nooo, she had to leave her Mutt on her back to look more impressively officerly. Her sidearm probably wasn't going to do -

And a car came out of nowhere and pinned the bug against the wall.

After a few seconds, the South African woman choked out "Thank you, Mr. Hertz."

"No problem."

"As you can see, 'crash course' turned out to be more literal than I expected."

The Russians just looked confused. Did the phrase translate? _Just keep rolling_.

She got to her feet, faced the foe, and held out her hand, without looking back, and hoped she was bluffing correctly. "Flask."

After a few seconds, the metal container was slapped into her hand.

"_Spasibo_," she said, exhausting her knowledge of Russian in the process. "Now, these guys are fast, and durable, but not very strong. If this was one of his big cousins, the Mutons -" where had they come up with that name, anyway? "- this car wouldn't even be an inconvenience. And one other thing."

She faked taking a swig, then tossed the closed flask back in the direction of the soldiers.

"They don't like fire. By how much, we're not sure. We don't even know if it hurts them, especially. But one of the things my organization likes is data. So we're going to conduct an experiment. We're going to see how well this guy burns."

Give them a second to think. What was that phrase they had used at the seminar? "Buy-in", right.

"I'm going to need an assistant. A volunteer from the audience. And someone who can siphon gas. Any takers?"

**-/-**

"Clear!" Mundy said, kicking the infiltrator's gun away from her lifeless hand. Better safe than sorry.

"Clear!" Petrov echoed. He glanced at the shivering clump of middle-management, and then said "Is it always this exciting for you?"

"Sometimes it's worse."

"Are you taking job applications?"

Mundy had just opened his mouth to explain why that was a bad idea when more soldiers arrived. "Ah, decided to show up, have we? Fashionably late?" He added a few more remarks on the matter, which the computer tactfully did not translate.

"Sorry, sir." The lieutenant, a real lantern-jawed, broad-chested recruiting-poster type, saluted. Mundy didn't even bother to correct him.

"There was an attack on the perimeter, uh, -"

"Call me Foster. Probably meant as a distraction. Did anyone see if she had a cell phone or headset when she came in?"

"I think she had a phone," said one of the soldiers. He reached for her body, which had fallen on its face, and rolled it over.

"Don't touch her!" Mundy said, too late.

She was, in fact, clutching a cell phone. Whose screen flashed green, giving the Aussie just enough time to grab Petrov's collar, yell "_frag!_" and hope it translated before throwing them both to the ground.

Luckily, the guy who turned over the body got most of the blast.

Luckily for everyone else, that is.

**-/-**

Marius peered over the roof's edge. "HQ, I have no contacts at the waypoint. Visibility is limited due to smoke. Thermals...thermals are limited due to smoke and fire. Repositioning."

She didn't wait for a confirmation before moving.

"Also, I am down to one rocket. Will resupply after next engagement."

The other corner of the roof was no better. Just fleeing civilians, who wouldn't be there if there were aliens. A few were noticing her on the roof, pointing at her.

"HQ, there's nothing here. Can you point me to someplace I can actually do some good?"

While she waited, she looked around. It was hard to tell, what with all the smoke, fire, and destruction, but this section of Moscow kinda reminded her of her hometown, Cala -

What was that? In the smoke, about a half-mile away, rising out of a destroyed apartment building. Looked like a UFO, an old-school flying disk. Marius called it in.

There was a pause before the response. _Your call is important to us..._ Then again, they had warned that Jo might be strained from that mega-Ping, so they had to do everything the old-fashioned way for a while. Relatively old-fashioned.

"Be advised, our drones are elsewhere, and on its last pass the chopper didn't catch anything in that area." That was an unfamiliar voice; probably one of the Ops staff. Unless they had recruited the janitors, which seemed unlikely.

"Roger. Maybe it was hiding in the smoke."

"We're trying to free up the drones now."

"Let me try the thermals." The Frenchwoman reached for her belt, and the AR controls there, when something strong and ropelike and invisible wrapped around her body. As the Seeker shimmered into view, it didn't bother to choke her out or shoot her, instead preferring to drag her off the roof.

And then it let her drop.

Marius had only a few instants, as she tumbled through the air, to realize what was happening to her, before she hit the ground hard, breaking her arms.

Followed by her neck.

**-/-**

Laura Byler stared at the burning building.

She had stims on her belt. Why hadn't the X-ray artillery attacked the oasis, or bastion, or whatever you wanted to call it? Was the worried man next to her feeling guilt, on top of the fear?

What was Irene doing?

Greeeat. Next thing she knew, she'd be talking about not-exactly-her girl back home, like a doomed movie character, and _then_ they'd be sending Ma a letter and a crisply folded flag -

"I had to," the Russian by her side muttered.

"Sir?"

"I needed...I needed to go out to the store, to buy dinner." He ran a hand through his thinning hair. "My wife teaches until after the local stores close, and he was asleep. I've done it before and...how was I supposed to know that -"

"Sir, you shouldn't explain yourself to me. I only care about your safety."

It was easy to lie, from the other side of a metal mask.

"Sorry, I just..." The hair thing again. He took a half-step toward the burning apartment building. Laura wondered how far he could get before she would have to stop him.

She could feel the tension in her neck, the need to be someplace, doing something else. Taking the fight to the enemy.

"I'm sure he's fine."

"Corporal!"

Both heads whipped around. Coming from the side of the burning apartment building was a man carrying a small cloth bundle, which was wailing at being unceremoniously roused from his nap.

"_Nikita_!"

"Here you go. Do you have a cell phone?"

"Yes."

"You should be getting evacuation instructions in..."

The father's phone rang.

"Oh-okay." He pumped the trooper's hand enthusiastically, went "thank you" a few times, then joined the people trying to get Away.

"You know, Kakakaway, I almost expected you to come out the window."

"Most babies can't take the hit from a two story drop, even without the rig." The Cree man shrugged. "I just took the fire escape."

"What if the hall had caught fire while you were in there?"

He grimaced. "I don't know. I took this job to get _away_ from firefighting. We probably would've laddered up there in the first place."

Their HUDs beeped at them, displaying a waypoint.

"Right. Duty calls."

**-/-**

The Moscow Metro was a beautiful place. Nice arches, stonework, and the lighting fixtures looked more suitable for a palace than public transit. Washington wished he had time to appreciate it.

Unfortunately, Hotel Squad was busy playing hide and seek with the x-rays.

The problem was that if any of the aliens got into the tunnels, they could end up anywhere in Moscow. On the surface, things were relatively contained. The alien arty or mortars or whatever it was could keep the heavier metal out, but that meant that any aliens who left their covering embrace would be cut down pretty quickly.

There were lots of civvies down here. Reminded him of pictures he had seen of the Blitz. But here, blackout was no salvation, though the lights in parts of the station flickered and went dim.

A lot of unarmed, terrified civilians.

He didn't give the zombie's body a second glance as he ran past.

"Think I've got it, sir," whispered the rook.

"The helmets are sealed, Pulaski," Washington said.

"Best practice, Wash."

"He's got you there, Scope," Levin said with amusement.

Bravo convened at an open area, a sort of intersection, where Cyrillic-labelled tunnels led to lower levels. The light was steadier here, and Bravo Lead set up his rifle in the shadows of the upper level, overlooking the scattering civilians and the bug that had crawled to the top of a newsstand.

"Where are you?" Washington asked. He sent them his location, his teammates transmitted their own. On the far side of the stand from Pulaski's position was a tunnel leading down to the lower levels, which ugly could easily escape to the second he knew they were there. Washington was approaching the alien from a tunnel near the staircase, at a right-angle to it. Excellent crossfire.

On the other hand, Levin suspected his Orion would overpenetrate, he didn't have access to Research to run the numbers for him, and he'd only get one shot. And, frankly, he didn't want a piece of extremely lively tungsten bouncing off the walls. He didn't know anything about the rookie's skills with the launcher, and the guy wasn't close enough to use his Mutt effectively.

"Is it...sniffing?" said the new guy.

"Artificial air circulation is probably confusing him." Scope edged closer to the stand, holding up a finger to his mask as the two folks who had been hiding in the stand caught sight of him. He popped his faceplate, waved them past, sealed it again. Then he edged toward the far side of the stand from the staircase. "Lucky for us. Orders?"

"Frag and tag."

"Roger," the medic said, as he pulled out a grenade. He was wearing an Achilles suit - but without the back turret - so he was most likely to survive an attack.

The American cooked the pineapple for a few seconds, imagining the apoplectic face of his drill sarge if she could see him. "Frag up," he said , tossing the grenade underhand. The bug gave a chitter before it detonated.

"It's still on the roof."

"Not for long." He stuck his weapon over the edge, blindfired, and got the satisfying scent of cooking bug. Or he would've, if his helmet wasn't sealed.

"Good effect," Levin said. "Confirm the kill."

"Roger."

"Shiny, incoming!" Arnadottir yelled, from the lower levels where Alpha was.

He felt it first. A faint thumping that quickly grew louder. Washington had just enough time to yell "_Boost!_" - which felt like being kicked in the back by a mule - before the Muton burst out of the stairwell and through the newsstand he had been behind a second earlier.

As his back-mounted thruster died down, Washington swung his weapon in an arc, letting its inertia and weight draw him around to face the new contact, which had slowed to a stop, and was trying to decide which threat it wanted to shoot first. If it had just kept charging, it probably would've been clear of them before they could react, instead of leaving himself completely exposed.

"Firing disabling shot," Shiny murmured.

A dull crack from his Orion, magnified in the confined space, and the plasma rifle spun out of the Muton's surprised hands.

"Got a shot," said Pulaski.

"Take it," said the sniper.

The XM25 was an airburst grenade launcher. It used a laser to determine the distance to the target, with its operator able to adjust that by distance ten feet less or more. When the smart grenade reached the programmed distance, it detonated.

It was nicknamed The Punisher.

The weapon, like most explosives, had never been intended for close-quarters work, but Development had dialed the arming distance down to something that would have been declared suicidally close by most militaries.

Right up until the alien invasion.

The flechette round Pulaski fired was incendiary, just like the Spitfire, of course, and he had been using it in impact mode. It punched through the alien's armor, stunning it, leaving it open for Washington's burst of laser fire, and Levin's shot to the lower spine.

The second grenade was _technically_ overkill.

"I think we got him," said the newbie. He walked up to the bug, double-tapped with his sidearm just to be sure.

"Very good," Viking said. "I'll put you in for a nice, shiny medal. If I survive. Get down here!"

The rookie was first down the staircase, after he took another glance at the aliens they had killed. Washington was close behind him as he descended into the dim lighting of the lower levels, a snatch of a song he heard once coming to him.

_Then I will follow you into the dark..._

**-/-**

Hale protested "I told them I didn't need a checkup -"

"Who taught you how to use a medkit?" Masumoto scolded. "You've used at least two, two and a half doses here!"

"Sorry, Mom, but I was kind of in a hurry."

"Am I the only person in XCOM who actually _read_ the new manual?"

"I'm fine. Just give me some stims. Wasn't the pilot helping you?"

"Went to supervise the fuel transfer, and don't try to change the subj -"

"_Help!_" someone cried in Russian from the next room.

Both troopers were on their feet immediately. The Japanese medic had her Kriss out, while the Canadian used her laser pistol. She silently stacked up on the left side of the doorway while the other woman took the right.

They entered the room to find an older man, lying on the ground on a hastily arranged pile of soft materials, kicking a woman with a syringe across the room. She hit the wall, dropped the syringe, recovered, and pulled a scalpel from her pocket as she lunged for the patient -

"Freeze!"

She froze.

"Sir, are you all right?" Hale called.

"I was half-awake. She...she was giving them some kind of injection." He gestured at the other patients, who, Hale realized, looked oddly still. "Then she got to me, and I realized she had used the same needle, and I asked her what was in it, and she just covered my mouth and tried to stick it into me -"

"So you are their tin men," said the woman. "And you let me kill, oh, a half-dozen very important men and women before I was interrupted." Her mouth made a little moue. "I must say, I am not impressed."

"Tin _women_, actually," Hale said. "Don't be sexist."

"Put down your weapon, and kneel on the ground with your hands up." Sam's voice was remarkably steady, Hale thought, given that her knuckles were white.

"We both know that isn't going to happen." She crouched, preparing to spring. "Hail HYD -"

Two shots echoed through the room.

The spy looked shocked, clutched at her chest, then fell.

The man on the bed lowered his Makarov.

"Uh...thanks." Hale said, as she and Sam moved to police the body.

"You're welcome."

"Who are you, anyway?"

"Alexander Lukin. I generally carry, even with my protection detail."

"Where are they, sir?" the medic asked.

Lukin grimaced. "Slaughtered by the aliens."

"Lukin...Lukin..." Hale suddenly grinned. "Pretty good shot for an oil billionaire."

The oligarch started, then, belatedly, put his handgun on safe. "I served, once." He stared at the dead woman. "Perhaps it is time for me to serve again."

**-/-**

The alien ground-commander watched the experiment through its Command Drone and through the tapped human sources.

The ship that had transported their forces had halted over the ocean, and the ground-commander found the way the locals reacted interesting. Also interesting was the presence of the human Fists, rallying and assisting the local forces.

And why had their force-commander chosen to support this nation, of the three they had attacked? The Collaborators had suggested they would commit one team to each city, not go for a, what was the human term? A 'Hail Mary'.

Still, the humans, in this city at least, were starting to turn the tide. With the spotters largely neutralized or distracted, the Casters could not target effectively, allowing human heavy vehicles to punch through.

The ground-commander ordered his troops to retreat. The aerial ones, at least. Ground forces were unlikely to survive, but they knew that going in.

It spotted something on the feed from one of its Casters, and, had it been capable of such a thing, would've smiled. Yes, that would do nicely. The Collaborators had been quite thorough in their briefing, backed up by Their own research, and the building's contents represented a critical vulnerability in the human psyche.

With a thought, it directed a small pack of Ambushers toward the undefended objective.

More than sufficient.

**-/-**

A tech abruptly went pale, then patched to Schmidt. The blonde listened for a few moments, her face hardening, then crossed the room to her XO.

Bradford looked up. "Another spy?"

"Not...exactly."

**-/-**

A few people cried. Most people were silent.

The school had been a short way outside of the outside perimeter, and the bugs had gotten inside before the news chopper flew overhead. It had gone unnoticed until some of the students managed to escape and flag down a cop.

As soon as the Russians found out, they descended on the place like the fist of an angry god, wiping out anything outside the building that so much as looked like an alien. They had also cleared the halls, a little more cautiously, but none of them had gone into the classrooms.

The moaning was bad enough.

In the hall were what was left of the teachers that had tried to resist, to defend their charges with their lives. The aliens hadn't bothered to implant them, preferring to remove the obstacles between them and their real target.

Not that all the students had been in classrooms, and so the police and soldiers who stormed the school had been forced to shoot shambling things that were a twisted mockery of children.

Hence the silence. Hence the tears.

"Voodoo, radio traffic indicates the building is clear."

"Jo, how can you be so calm?" said Hale.

"I'm in safe mode, my emotional emulation is disabled. I will feel horrified later."

"Y'know, Jocasta, there are times when I envy you," Pena said. "Huddle up, team."

They found a secluded corner, where the locals couldn't hear them, opened their masks.

"Sam, what's the situation?"

"I don't think they're actually _dangerous_," the medic said over the radio. "Remember how the injured man produced an injured bug?"

"Wait, let me guess," Hale cut in. "Not enough room for the little baby bugs to grow."

"Not even close. They can still...zombify them, though, but when they emerge, if they emerge, they will probably just die."

"So, if that's true," Pena said, "all we need to do is let them die off. Just leave them locked up for a few hours, let Research get some valuable data about their life cycle." A deep breath. "That said; iron or fire?"

"We're low on ammo."

"Fire it is. Resource efficient. And we all know the _bichos_ don't like fire."

"You're going to _burn_ them?" said a horrified voice.

Voodoo slammed down their masks and turned to face the contact, who didn't seem the least bit discomfited by having five different high-power weapons pointed at him.

Mundy blinked, lowered his gun, and popped his mask. "Petrov?"

"These are _children_! You can't just, you can't -

"Kid." Mundy grabbed Petrov's shoulders, turned the younger man to face him. "Those...those aren't children anymore. Even if they were taken out with...even if they were taken out, no one is ever using this school again. One way or another, those things are going down. And we are _not_ asking your people to do it."

The Russian stared at him, blankly. Then his face just crumbled, and he began to weep, openly. Mundy held him until he wound down.

And anyone who had a problem with _that_ could just jam it up their arse.

Petrov swiped at his face. "Remember what I said about getting a job with you people?"

"Yeah?"

"Never mind."

Mundy half-smiled, bitterly. "That's the idea. We do it, so you don't have to."

**-/-**

"And that's about it," Schmidt said. "Their fire support seems to have bugged out. Just the mop-up left."

Nobody cheered - this wasn't a cheering occasion - but there was a release of tension.

Bradford rubbed his eyes as the boss went on. "First thing we're going to do is refill that coffee."

His eyes opened, and he stared at his boss. It was, what, sunrise on the surface?

"Madrid and Tokyo still need help. Our Strike teams are running on fumes, we all are, but we can still provide remote support. Rao and Jo will check the efficiency ratings. The bottom third are going to take a two-hour break. Then the next third, and then the top performers."

The tension ratcheted up again. Not all the way, though.

The Director squeezed her XO's shoulder. "You too, David. I don't want you to find out you so much as beat your high score at Angry Birds."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Everyone else, what are you staring at? Get back to work. We have not yet begun to fight."

**-X-**

**Avicii - "Hey Brother"**

_TROPHY ACHIEVED: Putin Up A Fight: Choose Russia for first Terror Mission._  
><em>TROPHY ACHIEVED: Crimea Against Humanity: Commit all available teams to a Russian Terror Mission.<em>

Saving a dozen or two people in attacks that kill thousands is not a real triumph. But a larger-scale event, like the ones here, would be nigh-unplayable. And probably not very fun. Similarly, it's commonly held that plasma weapons have enough power to core tanks, despite the fact that we never see such performance onscreen in-game. But a heavy long-range fire-support unit might do the trick. Or even a tank-equivalent of their own. Too bad they don't seem to have any.

[_distant, maniacal laughter_]

Eamon has absolutely no problem with cribbing from other superhero movies. Namely, The Dark Knight.

Funny thing; I just realized that I "cast" Saffron Burrows as Jo, but I had forgotten she was on Agents of SHIELD. Speaking of which, certain events in this chapter were heavily inspired by _Winter Soldier_.


	11. 10 You can't carry it with you

**10 You can't carry it with you if you want to survive**

**-O-**

The Exalted convened.

From behind their metal helms, they spoke. Thin hands gestured from the folds of red robes.

The humans were...unruly.

Their reaction to the experiment had not accorded with the hypothesis, bore only the merest resemblance to any models. There was little consensus, and much disagreement. Indeed, it often seemed that their global information network was mainly developed to allow humans to efficiently disagree with more people than ever before.

As for their martial capabilities, their Mail-clad Fists had proven a decisive factor. It was not enough to win the war, of course, but they risked giving humans enough false hope that it might prove too costly to defeat them.

Costly to the humans, that is.

And if they put their faith in metal, they might not turn to the Gift.

And so, it was decided; old projects would be unearthed, pressure would be applied unto their main opponents, this "X-Com". As for Earth's Shield, the Collaborators would suffice. Indeed, they were _eager_ to help, offering amusing trinkets as gifts, in the hope that they would be raised on high upon the aliens' inexorable triumph.

The Exalted dispersed.

-/-

Bradford found Schmidt in the chapel.

The place was non-denominational, of course, and she was halfway along, on the left side, her head on her crossed arms, which were themselves on her knees.

He sat on the other side of the scattered paperwork, and waited for a while, glancing at her occasionally. She looked a lot more relaxed when she was asleep, kind of like when she laughed.

Her nostrils flared.

"I hope you brought more."

"No coffee for people who sleep in church."

She smiled, opened her eyes, and sat up, kneading her back in a familiar gesture. "Ow."

"This isn't your office, Director."

"I noticed. Anything happened last night?"

"The Mayor of Vancouver held a press conference." He checked his tablet. "Pierre 'Pepe' Tucker. Because he has a white streak in his hair, like -"

"I get it."

"He wasn't too happy with us. Vowed to launch an investigation into this mysterious task force that was responsible for so many people killed and harmed."

The blonde's brow furrowed. "I'm pretty sure we weren't the ones shooting plasma at ourselves."

"Meanwhile, in Russia, I'm sure they want to give us medals. They've promised to increase their support, and are already placing orders. Along with a whole lot of other places. Spain and Japan aren't exactly happy with us, though some people are wondering if they pissed us off somehow."

It was interesting, to watch her face grow hard by degrees.

"What about Carlock?"

Bradford paused. "He didn't find anything."

"What? Then why would...would...oh. Of course." She cupped her face in her hands and sighed. "Misdirection."

"Recovery checked out the garage. They found that the trap that got Flint had been removed."

"Probably wasn't the parking attendant."

"Probably not."

Schmidt stared towards the table at the front of the chapel. "Wanna know why I keep using Greek myths for names?"

"Greco-Roman, and the Council -"

"They don't micromanage _that_ much." She smiled. "I just wanted to actually use my degree."

"What did you do before this?"

"I was in the Army."

"Can you be more specific?"

"No."

"Oh."

There was a brief silence.

"Normally...about now, I'd be getting ready to go to Church."

"In America?"

She shook her head. "Nope. German Evangelical."

"You lived in Germany?"

"Well, I was retired. From the military, I mean. Frau Hoffer would make these little lemon Danishes, and tea, for after the service. The tea was weak, but the Danishes -"

"When was the last time you ate?"

"Um-" She thought. "_Um._"

"Director, we're getting you breakfast. Maybe you can ask Chef Baptiste to make you some treats and bad tea for next Sunday."

"What about the paperwork?"

"We'll do it over breakfast." He took his boss's hand, to help her up.

She held it a little longer than strictly necessary.

-/-

"I should have seen it coming," Masumoto said, staring at the floor.

The therapist raised an eyebrow. "You think you should've seen that a _fire extinguisher_ was a trap?"

Sam said nothing, only shifted in her seat.

"I've talked to Doctor Rao. She said there was nothing anyone could've done."

"That she knows about."

"That _anyone_ knows about. Not even you."

The Japanese woman opened her mouth, then closed it again.

"Let's talk about Moscow. How do you feel about burning down that school?"

The soldier was silent for a few seconds, her gaze distant. "I keep wondering...what if there was someone hiding in a closet? What if we burned them alive, trapped in a little box?" She spoke faster. "Pounding on the door, but it won't open, can't get out, can't get away, no one can hear me, _kaso_..."

"If it's any consolation," the therapist said mildly, "most fatalities are from smoke inhalation. How do you feel about Tokyo?"

"I'm from Osaka."

He waited.

"What do you want me to say?" the young woman burst out. "That I'm upset about my capital burning while I was on the other side of the continent? Yes, of _course_ I am! But it doesn't change the fact that I had a job to do elsewhere."

"Saving lives."

Masumoto snorted. "Mitigating damage."

"Do you feel responsible for Flint's...incapacitation? Or those assassinated officials?

She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, got herself under control. "No. Of course not."

Softly, very softly, the therapist said: "but the dreams still keep you up at night".

Masumoto looked at him sharply.

-/-

Vahlen stood in front of the Muton's cage - for all that it looked like it was made of glass - and closed her eyes. She could almost feel its rage, like standing in front of an open furnace -

"Are you still getting those headaches?" someone said quietly.

"Yes," Vahlen said. Relenting, she added, "I am not sure which is worse, the pain or the dreams of fire."

"Maybe it is a good omen," Marceau said. "Maybe we'll be able to quit and go camping soon."

His boss smiled, opened her eyes, and the heat died down. She could've sworn the headache was slightly better too.

She looked around. A blond sentry hastily pretended he hadn't been staring.

"Well, we've learned all we could from passive observation. How long have we had him?"

"Or her. Since Marseilles."

"Well, it's certainly overstayed its welcome. Let's begin the interrogation."

"Tests have shown that this specimen is genetically identical to some of the ones in Moscow."

"So if they make extensive use of cloning, why would they have different variants -"

-/-

Eamon found one of the few clear spots on the desk, and banged the cup down a little harder than he had to.

Tony woke up - and sat up - with a bleary "whuh?" He had a diode stuck to his cheek.

"Morning, boss," Irene said. "Ahh, that's a fine cup of coffee."

"Mmrph," said the playboy, and scrabbled for the Iron Maiden mug. Eddie the Head was the last thing Irene would want to see first thing in the morning, but to each their own.

"Did you get the manual finished?"

"Did I..." Tony's eyes widened, and he frantically reached for his tablet. "Uh, tell me I didn't..."

"You didn't," Jocasta said. "The Director is reading through your draft over her morning coffee. Or, more accurately, over Bradford's morning coffee."

"You know, _Chief_ Stark, you don't have to do this yourse -"

"Wait a second. Jo, did you say that Schmidt and the Hawk are having breakfast?"

"No, I said Bradford is having coffee. In the Director's office. Like they have every morning for some time now."

"She also squeezed his shoulder and told him to get some rest during the Moscow mission," Irene added.

"How do you know?"

"Because she did it in front of everyone. Maybe if you'd talk to your employees about something besides work -"

"Your girlfriend told you, didn't she?"

Irene raised her coffee cup, which just happened to cover her face. "She's not my girlfriend." She picked up the Kriss SMG and put down the mug, fishing her glasses from her pocket with her free hand. "What do you need _this_ for?"

Despite the caffeine, Tony yawned. "I'm trying to copy their block...thingy."

"To reduce recoil?" She made sure the chamber was clear, and sighted along the iron sights.

"Yeah, but I was trying to figure out how to make it work with pulse weapons."

"Mmm. You know that if this war ends, they could sue you, right?"

"Sue _us_."

"Yeah, 'cause they're going to sue the military instead of the billionaire. As I understand it, the core of the system is the redirection of downward force. Jo, if you could bring up their patent -"

-/-

"-And we need to find out which of our personnel have holiday needs," Schmidt said.

"Throw a party for the troops and anyone else staying behind?" Bradford suggested.

"Mmm. Maybe we can get Lady Gaga. Does USO cover international task forces in secret underground bases?"

There were a few minutes of silence, broken by the rustling of paper.

"Jo's been doing some analysis," Bradford volunteered.

"Of what?"

"Conspiracy theorists."

Schmidt gave Bradford her full attention.

"She's gotten a few of our guys together with SHIELD's analysts, to look at some of the speculation floating around."

"So you're saying I need to authorize hazard pay."

Her XO snorted. "Ever heard the saying about the stopped clock?" He took a sip of coffee. "For example, there are some who say that Tony Stark is alive, and the government kidnapped him to make weapons."

If she had been drinking coffee, Schmidt would've spat it out over every bit of paperwork on her desk. As it was, she just stared. "You're kidding."

"Oh, it's a minority theory, but it's out there. Another is that we're working with the lizard people to create a threat so we can take away everyone's civil liberties."

"Someone had better tell those Infiltrators. They seem to think we're on different teams."

Bradford skimmed a sheaf of procurement request forms. "My favorite is the one that says that Captain America is alive, and working for us."

Schmidt froze.

"We're apparently farming his blood to make Super-Soldier formula."

Schmidt unfroze.

"Because some of the things we do are impossible for regular humans."

"Well, let's not correct them. We need disinformation."

"More than you know. A lot of people - not just these nutjobs - are trying their best to find us. Or the Thunderbolt Strike Force. Or X-Force. Or just 'the Defenders'. They don't even know what to call us."

"Why are they looking for us? To sue?"

"Well, some of them, but mostly they want to thank us."

The Director blinked.

"...And to volunteer."

The Director smiled.

"What's that for?" Bradford asked.

"Just thinking about something someone said once. About the most important battlefield."

"Hearts and minds."

"_But it's 'Thin red line of heroes' when the drums begin to roll_," Schmidt quoted, bending over her work again.

"Seems we've read the same books."

"You, me, and anyone else since the 19th century who's ever been saluted and called 'sir' or 'ma'am'."

"Of course, if we did recruit these folks, then we'd have even more paperwork." David looked at the mass of white filling the Director's desk sourly. "_God._"

"Language, dear," Schmidt said absently. Then her head snapped up, and she blushed.

There was an extremely awkward silence.

-/-

"How do you feel about Madrid?" asked the therapist.

The clock ticked a few times before Silva answered.

"It happened. Just like it happened in Tokyo, and Moscow."

"Except for the fact that you were in the latter."

The Spaniard said nothing.

"According to the reports, a member of the Royal family perished in the fighting. You were formerly of the _Guardia Real_, and your file says you were assigned to the Prince."

"The _Infante_. Non-heirs don't get to be called Prince or Princess."

"My mistake. The _Infante_. But you were assigned to his detail for an extended period, correct?"

"_Si_."

"Do you feel that XCOM should've been sent to Spain? That it would've prevented the massive loss of life before your countrymen were able to beat off the attack, including the life of the _Infante_?"

"It was not my decision," Silva said stiffly.

"That's not what I asked."

-/-

"Sarge," said Kakakaway.

"Kakakaway," said Laura to the Canadian.

"What's the main course?"

The Texan craned her neck. "It's brown."

"Very funny."

"Beef Wellington," said a man behind the counter. "Side of carrots and string beans. We also have a Caesar salad as the vegetarian entrée, and the usual selection of sides."

"Thank you, Chef, uh -"

"Greco."

"Do you have any burgers?" Laura asked.

The man from Monaco looked heavenward. "Americans."

Despite his eye-rolling, he whipped up some pretty tasty burgers. Laura hadn't had much deep-fried food since she joined XCOM - and was getting kinda homesick for the State Fair- but Mac had promised to throw a party, and show his peers what Scots could do in that culinary area.

Did Rao know? And didn't Doctors have a right to violate patient confidentiality if there was a threat of imminent bodily harm?

They made their way to the table, with a nod to Pena and Hale.

"I've been meaning to ask you something," the Canadian asked as they sat. "What were you yelling when we found those cornered civilians being attacked?"

_A fallen grocery bag, melted by the heat from plasma passing by._

_A man screaming at third-degree burns over half his torso._

_The paint on a cherry-red car, bubbled and marred and blackened._

_The crunch of broken glass under metal boots._

"Not sure."

"Sounded angry," the Canadian said.

"Probably was."

"So...where are you from?"

The penny dropped while her brightly-colored sports drink was halfway to her mouth. One would've had to have been watching closely to notice when she stopped for an instant.

He liked her, and thought she was interested. No, that wasn't right; he thought she could ever _be_ interested. Which wasn't an unreasonable assumption, statistically, since he was a square-jawed, well-built, exotic-looking firefighter. But a man who charged into burning buildings for a living probably wasn't going to be put off by any excuse she could think of.

She needed to tell him the truth.

"Kakakaway, I think you should know that I'm a -"

"_Laaaauuura_, who's your friend?"

"Oh. Um, hi, Irene. Private Kakakaway, meet Irene Starkos, Assistant to Chief Stark."

They shook hands. As the only white person at the table, Laura felt outnumbered.

"Are those fries?"

The Texan blinked. "Yeah, but -"

The woman from Chicago leaned over Laura to get at her fries. And got way too close in the process.

"I thought you were on a diet -"

"I told you, I like salads, honey! You never _listen_ to me! Even if I was, I can still cheat a little." Irene rolled her eyes, and looked at Kakakaway. "This woman."

She sat down - again, too close to be normal, even if it wasn't exactly _uncomfortable_ - and slid the fries into her mouth in, eyes locked on Laura's the whole time.

Laura had never seen her without the glasses, actually. What would she look like with them off? Or wearing nothing _but_ -

"I hope you weren't going to ask her out. Regs say that personnel in the same division can't date." Irene swallowed her fries and looked at the Cree. "Or...anything shorter term."

Oh, right, why didn't she think of that?

Laura saw his eyes narrow. In thought, not hostility. "So...are you two..."

"Just friends," Laura said hastily. Irene was fifteen years older than she was, after all, even if a part of her sometimes whispered _so what_?

"Yes." The expression on the engineer's face looked like it belonged on something scaly that floated on rivers, pretending to be a log. "_Friends_."

Laura's blush went all the way to the roots of her hair at Irene's alpha-wolf act. She needed to calm down. Didn't wolves mark their territory by pissing all over it?

"Ah." Kakakaway cleared his throat. "So...how's work been lately?"

Like a dog did with a hydrant, or tree, or couch.

Irene thought for a second. "Varied."

Laura imagined Irene, just peeing all over Laura's leg. While eating a salad.

"Sarge? Is something wrong?" Her subordinate had a worried look on his face, which she couldn't actually see at the moment.

"Just thought of something funny," Laura said, with her face buried in her hands, and shaking with laughter.

"Care to share it with the class?" Irene asked.

More giggles.

-/-

"Hale, could you pass the salt?" Pena asked, without looking up from the battered book of poetry he was reading.

"No problem..._Big Bert_."

The Argentinian got a very odd look on his face.

-/-

He could hear it.

Outside the bush, he could hear the mechanical monster that was hunting him. It hadn't caught on to his exact location yet, but it was warm, very warm.

The robot paused, and he listened closely. Eventually, he heard the sound of it turning away, and readied his weapon. If it was looking in the wrong direction, he could -

A second drone rolled through the bush and took aim at him from point-blank range.

_Clever girl._

And then the paintball hit Washington in the face.

-/-

Elsewhere, Tony Stark said "that's my boys", and took a look around the lab. Sometime between kickoff and Washington's "demise", everyone had left for lunch.

That was getting to be a habit.

"Stark."

Tony nearly had a heart attack.

"Bradford, what - why did you - _what_ -"

"Sorry. Just wanted to see if I still had it."

"Had _what_? Being a _ninja_?"

"Never mind. How much sleep have you been getting lately?"

"Enough. I've been busy. Setting up the sim for Tue Rovers, fixing the bugs in their AI, organizing my next, what's the word, pub crawl..."

"That's what you have subordinates for. Your team is good, Stark, and you're no good to anyone if you fall asleep on your soldering iron."

Tony resisted the urge to reach for the singed spot on his beard. "Perks of the job. I can stay up as long as I like."

"Unless your Commanding Officer says otherwise, at which point they can have you dragged off by BaseSec and put under sedation."

The engineer stared at Bradford. "Well, yeah, it's not like I have something else to do."

The light dawned. "Ah."

"Yeah."

The soldier looked thoughtful. "I'll see what I can do. So, how _is_ work?"

Tony stifled a yawn.

"We got those repulsor afterburners and Arc Reactors retrofitted into the Interceptors, at least."

"And the new missiles?"

"They're on there too." Stark frowned at the gauntlet, then slammed his fist down onto the table and let out a short, explosive syllable. After a few seconds of awkward silence, he said "sorry."

"I was in the Navy," Bradford said. "I've heard worse." His brow furrowed. "Actually, I've probably said worse."

"When you got shot?"

"When I stubbed my toe."

-/-

"Do you think HYDRA's been too quiet lately?" Bradford asked, as his boss sat next to him.

Schmidt glared at him. "David, Fletcher went through all this trouble of setting up a nice Christmas-slash-Holiday party, and you're talking shop? I order you to not talk about work, or I'll find a rolled up newspaper and smack you on the nose."

They both went silent. Bradford was about as casual as he ever got, which meant that he wasn't wearing a tie under his sweater, had the top button of his shirt undone, and was wearing sneakers instead of dress shoes.

"And no. No they're not. They're just laying low."

They watched Dunayevsky try to twerk.

"Is he drunk?"

"I don't know, but I think I need to be."

The Director herself had heels, a cocktail dress, and a bolero jacket with a tiny gold and teal version of the XCOM crest on the lapel.

"Nice pin," Bradford noted.

"Starkos' idea. She also had some interesting ideas about merchandising, if we ever go bright."

"I see. I'm pretty sure that having company logos on the rigs would compromise any camouflage."

"Maybe we could do a product placement thing. Just fight aliens with big red Coke glasses."

Bradford snorted. "Or endorsement deals."

"_Yes_," Schmidt said, with an entirely un-Directorly lack of gravitas. "And then they'll send us free stuff!"

"_After a long, hard day of protecting Earth,_" Bradford made an easily-misinterpreted gesture, "_I like to kick back with a cold-_"

Paula had a hand over her mouth, trying to stifle her giggles. "Stop it, you're killing me!"

"Director...you are aware of the fact that we're sitting under mistletoe?"

"You mean that sprig you can barely see?"

"Yes."

Schmidt picked up a knife from the table, tossed it in the air to get a feel for the balance, eyed the plant, and pointedly ignored the personnel trying to pretend they weren't watching her closely. "Give me a second."

**-X-**

**Florence and the Machine - "Dog Days Are Over"**

If you're familiar with Spacebattles, you may want to take a close look at Mayor Tucker's name. In keeping with Marvel's Stan Lee cameos, Mayor Tucker is played by Sid Meier.

In case it wasn't obvious, Masumoto has an illogical fear of being cremated alive.

Funny. For someone who criticized Fallout: Equestria for the writer's lesbians and teasing/humiliation fetish, I'm now writing a story involving lesbian romance, in which the two people in question have both been teased.

Then again, I don't get off on either of those. And no one in this story is going to, say, discuss their sex life on their highly popular radio station without their partner's consent. My only fetishes on display in this story are shotguns and competence.

Though I _am_ trying to find a plausible way to work an Albanian Pudding Wrestling scene into the fic. Just a heads-up.

Vahlen is portrayed by Franka Potente. The therapist is played by Jeffrey Donovan, best known as Michael Westen from Burn Notice.

According to John Ringo, the military tends to like Kipling. Luckily enough, so do I, which is why I had that line from "Tommy" memorized. Originally, Schmidt's line was going to be a Napoleon quote about morale.


	12. 11 Dying Stroke

**11 Dying Stroke**

**-O-**

They were somewhere over Europe when Chris "Corsair" Summers, until recently a member of the USAF, found the alien craft.

When he launched his Sidewinders, the ship curved smoothly away from its perpendicular course, to head away from the Interceptor. It went transsonic with almost contemptuous ease.

Summers could've sworn that he detected surprise when he hit his own afterburners and began to catch up. After what felt like a brief hesitation, the contact poured it on, and the gap began to widen.

"That's right, run," the Alaskan murmured into his mask.

And then, from on high, screamed Peter "Starlord" Quill.

Summers had never learned how, exactly, his RAF wingman got his name. All he had been willing to say, when he got really drunk on New Year's, was that it involved a racoon.

"Look for the Hun," Quill quipped, "in the sun. Fox Three. "

And then he launched the Stark Industries Jericho Missile, Air to Air variant, customized by Tony Stark himself.

The poor X-Ray ship, which Summers had chased right into the missile's kill envelope, never had a chance.

-/-

Irene found her in the mech bay.

There was a bar the troops liked to go to. They also served dinner, so he could get a table with her, act like it was just another meal.

Like their lunches.

Okay, maybe not just another meal.

"Laura?" she said, over the sound of the suit armature.

The Texan turned to her with a smile.

_The warmth of your regard._

Focus.

"I was wondering if you wanted to - if you would -"

She was looking at him expectantly.

"Never mind."

"Never mind."

Her face fell.

"I mean...I'll tell you later."

The blonde's face went neutral. "All right. When I get back. Hold the helmet," she said to someone.

"Laura, what are you do-"

The soldier swept Irene into her arms, and planted a kiss on her cheek that left the spot tingling.

"I'm making a promise."

"Um," Irene squeaked. Her face felt hot. When the other woman released her, she stumbled, what with her legs having suddenly lost a large portion of their strength.

Laura smiled, reached for her helmet, and left for the hangar.

_And so, having stolen a kiss from his lady-love, the brave knight donned his helm and went forth to do battle with the dragon._

Eamon found a bench to sit on before his legs wobbled right out from under him.

_Though the genders weren't exactly right._

She touched her cheek with one trembling hand.

"What are you smiling at?" she growled at the remaining people in the room. "Quit clapping and get back to work."

Her words were somewhat undercut by the smile creeping across her face.

-/-

"This is an Outsider," Bradford said.

The briefing hologram on the 'Rangers had been set up so both Echo and Hotel could see each other on the other "side". Like they were on different sides of the same pane of glass.

"This image, poor as it is, was recovered and reconstructed from the memories of several of the aliens we have interrogated. We think they are the alien commanders."

"Wait," said Viking, "what about the Reds?"

"They may be the equivalent of junior officers," Bradford said. "However, they're not critical to the mission."

"So what _is_ the mission?" Okoye said.

"To capture an Outsider. We believe that they can give us access to the alien base."

"There's an alien base? Where?"

"That's _also_ what we need the Outsider for."

"What's the situation like on the ground?" Levin asked.

"There's radio silence, and we assume there's alien jamming. There are a few tweets reporting a few sightings, but nothing actionable, not enough for a clear picture."

"So what are we supposed to do with these?" Viking patted the assault Rover they had hoisted to the ceiling of the transport. The tag read "Pitbull". On the other side of the looking-glass, Echo's supply Rover was bulkier, named "Bernie". Short for "St. Bernard".

"They have their own way of getting down. Let's just say they'll be right behind you."

"Great. Just what I always wanted. An oversized RC car that thinks it's a dog, trying to fly somewhere over my head."

Pitbull "barked" at him.

"Drop in thirty," called the pilot. "The seatbelt light will be turned on! Please return all seat backs and tray tables..."

-/-

The drop packs were external frames that attached to the armor, and looked like a cross between a jetpack and a wingsu -

A beam of light speared through the air and smacked Hertz right out of the sky.

"_Evasive!_" Okoye barked. The suits went into barrel rolls and slewed away from their original path as they cut their thrust significantly.

That is, all the way.

They flared their repulsors as they dropped below the roofline, bleeding speed. Bernie, being a robot, could take much higher stresses than the troops, and Lloyd's AR showed that it was dropping a lot faster than they had. And a lot more vertically.

There was a loud crash right after it dropped out of sight a few streets over, followed by a car alarm going off. Okoye ignored it and looked around, as she shrugged off her drop pack. It promptly folded itself into a configuration that would require the Jaws of Life to pry open.

"Hertz, how are you?" His tag on her display listed him as alive, though his medical status was a worrying gold.

"I think I broke something," the German said woozily. "I think I broke...everything."

"Jo, is he stable?"

"Yes."

"Good."

Honestly, this part of the Czech Republic was kind of pretty, even before the snow. It wasn't exactly a bustling metropolis, but it had a sort of charm, with the colorful buildings and the mountain looming above. Too bad Okoye had completely forgotten the name of the town.

"How's Pitbull?"

"More or less fully functional. You should see the other car."

"Your mission is to neutralize that anti-air, whatever it was, so Hotel can proceed to the primary objective," Bradford reminded her.

"Roger," Okoye ground out. "Oh, what is _this_?"

Some civilians on the street were staring and pointing at her. Some were taking photos.

"I thought the network was down."

"But the phones themselves still work fine," Jo sighed. "Don't worry, I'll take care of it. Once the phone network comes back on, I'll intercept everything that has a clear picture of you."

"What about landlines? Like those tweets you mentioned earlier?" Viking cut in.

"That...could be trickier. Hang on, your team's locations have all been tweeted. Here's a waypoint. Miss Starkos has just suggested we don't try to stop the landline tweets from the server side, but just limit ourselves to the town, specifically the few people who might see you. Which saves me digging through who knows how many posts, so I'm all for it."

"Maybe we could feed false tweets?" Okoye said. When had what was Trending become a tactical consideration? "So if the enemy is monitoring them, they think we're coming from the wrong direction. "

"Like Operation Bodyguard. I like it," Bradford said in something that was almost a warm voice. "Do it."

"Incidentally, our pal is in the network."

"How can you tell?"

"I tried to set up a small version of the mega-ping that we did in Moscow, and he wouldn't let me. Sent false GPS data so I couldn't tell where everything was, switched the music to "Rescue Me" and backflowed it at the proxy I was using. I can still filter the social stuff, but that'll be by service provider, not their location relative to our troops. Plus, the fact that a surprising amount of people use 'monkey' as their Facebook password. Still, I got enough intel to know that there's an potential enemy cluster...here."

The waypoint popped up on Okoye's display.

"Got it. Everyone, head toward that contact. Quietly. You too, boy."

Pitbull huffed indignantly.

-/-

Snow crunched under Okoye's feet as she took cover behind a car.

"We found them. They seem to be HYDRA drones. They set up in the town square, which seems exposed."

"But it _does_ give them a shot at your most likely approach vectors," Jo noted. "You're probably not getting to the ship, on air or by foot, without going through this plaza."

"Set up a sync-shot." _Why only six of them?_

The team moved to good vantage points, confirmed they had angles, and executed. Even the supply Rover dashed out into the open before unleashing a burst of .45 ACP at the head of one of the drones.

Which staggered, recovered, then blasted the little guy with a chest beam.

-/-

"What was _that_?" Singh said.

"_That_ was a repulsor blast," Tony said, jaw set.

"_And_ an arc reactor," Irene added. She now had a sneaking suspicion about who HYDRA had working for them, but couldn't just blame it on someone she wasn't supposed to know even existed. Maybe she could pretend to figure it out later.

"The Rover experienced a brief disruption to its electrical systems," Jo said, as a flurry of red light cut the HYDRA robot down. Bernie returned the love tap by driving over its head and grinding said body part to pieces under its own treads.

"Well, at least we know what hit Hertz," Singh said.

"Pretty sure someone forgot to carry a one somewhere," Tony said lightly. His knuckles were white. "If you didn't do the math right, you end up with lots of spare electrons bouncing around."

Irene snapped her fingers. "Which may have been in the rocket that took down the 'Ranger in Marseilles!"

"Good thing we upgraded the electrical protection in the rigs," Singh said.

What none of them said was _what if_ they've _upgraded too_?

-/-

"Clear!" Okoye called. "Hotel, AA is down. You are free to drop!"

The rest of the squad echoed her, followed by her number two going "Eltee, this doesn't make any tactical sense. At all."

"I see what you mean," said Orlov. He kicked at one of the fallen drones. "Why not hide in the surrounding buildings, ambush us when we come through?"

"Maybe we caught them setting up?" Silva said. "Or they were still messed up from the crash?"

"Then why are they the only ones here?" Kakakaway asked. "Why would the x-rays send them out in a bunch, instead of guarding the ship?"

"I don't know," Okoye said, "but I'm feeling exposed. Jo, tell the local cops to secure the 'bots, and we head to the ship." She pointed - "that way -"

The first bolt of green impacted near her weapon, reducing it to slag and frying the actuators in her hands. The second, an instant later, scored the blate over her left-hand floating ribs. The third disabled her Ajax's right knee joint.

And just like that, Lieutenant Elise Okoye was turned into a rather expensive paperweight.

Both Shrimp and Hotshot were heard to utter a single, intense syllable - albeit in two seperate languages - as the former went down and the other members of her squad scrambled for cover.

"Did anyone see where that came from?" Byler yelled.

"Yes," Jo said. She put up a ghost-outline of a multi-story office building overlooking the square. Another outline surrounded a particular window.

The Texan went over the square's layout in her mind, and something twisted in her gut. The sniper had a perfect position on the entire area.

"Trap," Okoye said.

"Shrimp, don't try to talk!"

"They didn't hit my _head_, Laura!"

"We're going to get you out of there!" Silva said.

The South African chuckled. "You need to read more. I'm not a target. I'm _bait_."

"What...what do you mean?"

"She means that the second we poke our heads out, we lose them," Orlov said.

"We have smoke -"

"Not enough to lift her and get clear in time. And before you say it, the Rover doesn't have enough horsepower either."

There was a grim silence.

"_Madre de dios_, what are we supposed to _do_?" the Spaniard asked.

"Echo, do you need backup?" Viking asked.

"Negative! Finish the mission!"

Beat. "Roger. Breaching!"

There was the distant noise of an explosion, and Laura bit her lip.

The X-ray had them locked down tighter than a string bikini on a elephant, and there was a good chance they could die before Hotel backed them up and _she was not going to let that happen_.

The box.

She had to think outside the box.

What were her fundamental assumptions? What were the sniper's? How could she get inside his OODA lo-

Wait. Inside.

She used her AR controls to designate a target.

"_Smoke out_!"

-/-

The first thing through the hole in the alien ship's roof was a new toy, nicknamed the "disco ball". First it flashed - but didn't bang - to disorient the opposition, then spent a few seconds acquiring targets, then gave them a burst of high-intensity lasers to the face.

The second thing was a rather determined combat drone that answered to the name "Pitbull".

"Whoa," Pulaski said. "If the little guy can cook too, I think I'm in love."

It sent up a "clear" signal, and Hotel dropped in through the hole.

"Pitbull, radial Ping," Nilsson ordered.

The upper floor of the UFO was built around the bridge, with two more rooms devoted to various purposes, and two lift shafts, as best as the Ping could tell, forming a sort of cross shape. Apparently, most of the x-rays had gone outside, in anticipation of the XCOM attack. Which had left them completely out of position when Hotel had just dropped onto the top of the ship.

Viking, to his shame, had actually blacked out from the g-force. Jo had taken over for those few instants, but he was not going to hear the end of it.

Assuming they survived.

"No more contacts on this level," the Swede reported, and they all relaxed a fraction.

"They just realized you caught them with their pants down," Jo reported. "Incoming."

"Pitbull," said Bradford. "Vertical Ping."

The robot responded with a growl.

"Sir?" said Washington.

"We haven't found the Outsider ye - there. Right below you. Possibly some kind of engine room."

"How many more charges do we have?" Arnadottir asked.

"Why? What do you think he's up to?"

"He's probably going to blow up the ship," Washington cut in. "And even if he is trying to fix it, we can't go down the lift shafts."

"Because that's where the x-rays are about to come up."

"All we can do is hope he sealed the doors in there from the inside," Spots finished.

"He's not the only one in there," Levin said, seemingly staring at the floor.

"Of course not," Viking sighed. "That would be easy."

-/-

The funny thing about plasma fire was that it was more or less silent. Well, until it actually hit something. So if the sniper had picked up on Laura's ruse, she might very well not hear the bolt that killed her.

She ran through the smoke, right past Okoye, using the AR image of the plaza to navigate. It was like walking through a world made of ghosts.

Comforting thought.

She wasn't going to take the front door. That way lay potential booby-traps.

Above her, she could see the sniper shooting blind at the clouds over Okoye, not realizing that the smoke was to cover her, not the Eltee.

There was a car in front of the building. Perfect.

"Suit, full power to mobility!"

And then Hotshot began to _move_.

Build up speed. Use the hood of the car as the first step, bend the knee a little as the next step hits the roof

(_it buckles under the impact, glass crazing and bursting outward as the frame deforms_)

_jump_ forward and up, through a second story window, parachute roll to bleed off speed.

As she tumbled, it occurred to her that it sure would be nice if she had some sort of grappling hook so she could just head up to the sniper and punch him in the face.

She looked to her left, and found a stunned janitor staring at her. A smile spread over her face.

"Health and safety," she said, which was _technically_ her job description. There was the fire stairwell. "Carry on."

-/-

"Hotel, what's going on?" Bradford said. "Report!"

The riot of confused images stabilized. "Sorry about that, sir," Washington said. "This guy did _not_ want to come quietly. We had to put him down."

Bradford frowned. Well, frowned more. "Did the Stunner not work?"

"Not well enough. He went all weird when he was hit by it, like...like seeing a glass break then unbreak itself. Then he did some weird things trying to stop us - sir, I'm not sure this Outsider is an organism at all."

"What makes you say that?"

"Well, for one thing," Nilsson said, turning his helmet camera to face to the glowing, floating crystal on the floor, "when we shot him, he went travel-sized."

-/-

Byler reached the doorway of room where she suspected the sniper was, and peeked around the corner.

Apparently, the Czechs used the same soulless partitions as Americans. Good to know.

There was a green flash over by the window.

She stayed low, skirting the edges of the cubicles, her gun raised. Judging from his marksmanship, the sniper was either an Infiltrator, or an exceptionally good human. Either way, she wanted his weapon intact, and that meant getting close.

Laura stepped over what looked like a backpack, presumably belonging to the sniper.

Which promptly exploded into a large number of flailing metal whips, which wrapped around her body.

_Uh-oh_.

"Glad you could join us," said the sniper, without turning around.

-/-

Pulaski caught the alien grenade, and lobbed it right back at the Muton that had dropped it through the hole in the ceiling.

The explosion seemed to just piss it off, and it jumped down the hole to face him directly.

Which meant that Hotel was trapped in a confined space with an angry Muton.

Great.

-/-

Laura had thrust her leg towards the nearest computer tower the second the whipmine exploded. The suit was supposed to be insulated, but it was better to get grounded, just in case. And it was better to lose her leg than her hands.

Of course, she'd prefer to lose neither.

"Interesting." The Infiltrator turned from the window. He was remarkably average-looking. "Well, the electricity's not working, but we don't need that, do we?" He leveled his bulky-looking firearm at the trooper. "You can't break the whips, even with your little su-"

There was a faint whisper that wouldn't have been audible to a human's ears as the aperture on the suit's chest opened. Then the American fired her chest repulsor into the mine.

There was a flash of light and sound.

When the alien came to, it had a broken jaw, and was propped up against a wall.

"Glad you could join us," said the human. She was looking for something in the debris. "I read the reports. You need a working jaw to spit. Where is...ah!"

She pulled a few long, sharp pieces of metal from the pile.

The alien tried to move. It was sluggish, at best.

"I wasn't trying to break them. But, unfortunately for you, your little toy just fried all my safety cuffs, but I don't think they would've held you anyway."

She turned a step into a lightning-quick kick at the alien's knee, which gave an audible snap. The Infiltrator's back arched in pain, and he let out a hiss.

"Oh no, don't get up on my account." She drew back one piece of metal, pointy-end forward. "Now hold still."

-/-

"I think that's all of 'em," Mac said.

"Jo?" asked Viking.

"Best as I can tell...yeah. This wasn't really a troop ship, I don't think."

"All right, let's back up Echo."

"No need," broke in the South African Lieutenant, a note of pride in her voice. "I think my girl's got it handled."

-/-

"Central, if you can hear me, I confronted and engaged the sniper. After escaping from some new type of mine, I pinned him two ways, so he won't be able to slip off."

Laura moved over to the weapon.

"This...doesn't look like their standard issue. It's a plasma sniper rifle, sure, but they've never needed to use a generator with any of their weapons. If anything, it looks like those HYDRA weap...Central, between this and that mine, I think they're supplying the x-rays with weapons. Seems like they didn't include the self des -"

Irene visibly flinched as a flash filled the screen, and Laura's feed switched to static and a NO SIGNAL message.

"She's fine," she said to no one in particular. "She...she _has_ to be fine."

-/-

"Jo?" said Kakakaway. "How bad would that explosion from the ship have been?"

"Well, according to Research...have you heard of a town called Hiroshima?"

They watched as other troopers scaled the building in a more conventional fashion, sweeping and clearing the structure. And then they found Laura's lifeless body; Irene drew in her breath sharply at the extent of the damage. Someone took off their gauntlet, and her helmet, to check her pulse. Jo had muted the sound, so their first indication was the fact that the soldiers didn't react with any urgency at all.

The second was when Jocasta said "Irene...I'm sorry."

Tony turned. His assistant was backing up, shaking her head without actually looking away from the screen. She was clutching her stomach like she was in pain, like someone had tied her guts into a hot, tight knot and it was squeezing out all the tears -

Or maybe not. Maybe she was taking it better than he had.

He reached out to her, and she flinched away, looking at him, through him, before turning away and heading right out the door.

Tony thought of two words. The first one was "well". The second one was also four letters long.

When Tony found her, she was lifting her glass to the ceiling, saying something that sounded like _that's three I owe ya_ before taking a swig.

"What are you having?" her boss said, sliding onto the next stool.

"What are you drinking?"

"Whiskey and Coke."

"Same for me."

She was two and a half-glasses ahead of him, judging by the empty glasses, and over-enunciating her words. Or slurring. Or something. Not important.

"What are you planning to do?" Tony took a sip.

"I'm going to drink until I'm too drunk to drink anymore. Then I'm going to wake up tomorrow morning with a hangover. I'm calling in sick, by the way."

"I'll have my assistant make a note of it. Irene, I know how you feel."

"Oh, I doubt it."

Irish, that was it. She sounded almost Irish when she was drunk.

"You feel like...like you could've done something."

"You have _no_ idea, rich boy."

"That's exactly how I felt when Shen died. I kept thinking I should've seen what he was about to do, should've stopped him. And you know what I realized?"

She didn't take the opening.

"Well, when I say 'I' I mean 'I and one of the therapists'."

Still nothing.

"There was hypnosis involved. I think I remember thinking I was a chicken, but I didn't think anyone would _eggsactly_ believe me."

Aaand she cracked a smile. "What did you realize, Tony? That it wasn't your fault? That sometimes bad things just happen?"

"Yeah. And that I needed to make my life count, somehow. I needed to live up to the image he had of me." Belatedly - by several months - he raised his glass. "This one's for you, Doc."

"Your Arc Reactor is killing you."

"What?"

Irene suddenly looked very, very sober. Her lips were a thin line. "The palladium is poisoning your blood. Your dad had plans for a new element, hidden in the Stark Expo model."

"Slow down -"

She was staring fixedly at the wall, tension in her hunched shoulders. "He didn't have the technology to do it before he died, but you can build a particle accelerator. In the lab. With a bunch of scraps. And some of the smartest people in the world."

"How do you -"

"I never really thought about the shield over there." She gestured at the one behind the bar. "Crossed swords, under an eye, and a star for a pupil. _Aperi oculus, gladium acutum_."

"It's just Latin, and -"

"_Open your eyes_. I think it means. You see...my eyes are open, now."

At this, she finally ran down. Her shoulders slumped.

"Irene. Irene, look at me. _Look at me_. Why are you telling me this?"

She looked at her empty glass. "I _could've_ done something. I could've -" She closed her eyes. "_I want to protect the people I put in harm's way._"

"Who said that?"

She leaned over and patted him on the knee. "A very close friend of mine. Barkeep! Another!"

And that was it. She shut up, and got back to her Jack.

Tony stared at her, brow furrowed, then left. After telling the barkeep to cut her off after two more glasses, which struck him as ironic, considering...him.

_I drink a lot, I don't have a problem_.

He then found a quiet corner and called Vahlen.

"Doc? I need a favor. Can you test blood? Good. Get out a lollipop, I'm coming down."

-/-

"Doctor," said the Director, "I'm quite interested in seeing how you interrogate a crystal."

"A floating crystal," Bradford added.

"They're probably not that much harder to question than most crystals," Vahlen said.

"Can we worry about that when Hotel and Echo get back?" Tony said. "How are we going to assault an alien base we can't even see? What if it's underwater? Or on the moon? What it it's full of those bugs? What if it's booby-trapped?"

"Excellent questions," Schmidt replied.

What if he really _was_ being poisoned?

"We've prepared some outlines for battle plans, and we've appreciate it if you'd take a look at them."

Two folders slid across the desk.

How drunk had Irene _been_ anyway?

"Something wrong, Stark?" Bradford asked.

"Hmm? No, just...thinking about Irene. She's...not good."

"I know that feeling," Schmidt sympathized. "And you?"

"I'm..."

"Bradford said that you were complaining that you haven't seen the light of day since you got here."

"Yes I have. On screen."

The corner of the Director's mouth turned up. "You know what? This can wait. Take a night off."

"Uh."

"That's an order. In fact, there's a place you can go for dinner. I've even arranged for the restaurant to be cleared out. Unfortunately, for security reasons, the base will have to make do without our favorite chef tonight."

"You want me to eat alone?"

"Not exactly. But I wouldn't want to spoil the surprise."

-/-

Irene looked at the ceiling, gestures at it, and said something rude in Irish.

"Did you just flip off God?" said the BaseSec guy on the next stool.

The engineer gave him a boozy smile. "Nah. Someone else."

-/-

Tony had scrounged up a nice suit by the time he met the group of sober-looking men in the warehouse that served as the entry to one of XCOM's elevators.

"Hey, you're those security guys! Arby's, right?

"Aegis, sir."

Tony eyed their vehicle. It was a low-profile SUV. Well, low-profile for Rodeo Drive, less so for Germany.

"So! You guys mind if I ride in the trunk?"

-/-

_What_-

What happened?

His head hurt. And his chest.

Something red dripped off the end of his nose and fell sideways.

Blood. Was it his blood?

Something hit his cheek.

He looked to his left. There was a dead man there, in body armor. His neck was at a strange angle, and the glass breaking from the impact had scored his face, leading to the blood.

Drip, drip.

The hit had come out of nowhere; a pair of lights, like angry eyes, broadsiding the SUV as it passed through an intersection. Was it better or worse than...Afghanistan? And his trip to XCOM?

Tony Stark. His name was Tony Stark, and he worked for XCOM, and people had died protecting him again -

He needed to get out.

He hit the belt release, and dropped, awkwardly. The guy on the other side was still alive, and he groaned.

"Stay there. I'll go get help."

He had actually scrambled out the left-hand window (don't look at the body don't touch the body) before he realized that he didn't actually have any idea how.

There were four men advancing on him, in green and khaki tactical gear, with masks on. There were civilians in the area, and the soldiers were ignoring them. One pointed, and raised his weapon to his shoulder.

He tumbled off the car in an undignified fashion, on the far side of it from the bad guys. There was a strange noise from the impacts as some of the shots hit, and a spark jumped to his hand.

Crap.

He scrambled to his feet and tried to run. But the soldiers had rounded the car, and the lights on their weapons were like, well, lasers on his back.

Plus, he was running towards innocent bystanders, and if the boys in green shot at him -

He stopped, raised his hands, and turned around.

One of the soldiers lowered his weapon and raised something from his belt.

And Tony saw that it looked a lot like the Sonic Stunner, and the last thing he says before he is hit by something that make the world taste like pennies, feel like he had stuck a paper clip chain into a light socket, and then look completely black was "_Hey_! You ripped that off from m -"

-/-

"What's going on?" Bradford said, as he walked into Mission Control.

"Do you know who Argos was?" Schmidt asked.

"Uh..." _Wake up, David._ "Besides a British store? A giant with a hundred eyes all over his body. What happened?"

"Aegis lost Tony."

"They _what_?"

"Needless to say, we won't be using their services again. Jo?"

The hologlobe was replaced by several windows, showing what appeared to be an intersection with a car accident.

"What am I looking at here?"

"The scene of the crime. Synchronize, please."

The intersection. The impact. A man climbing out of the overturned SUV, trying to run from the approaching soldiers, surrendering, being knocked out and dragged away. The audio from several calls to the local equivalent of 911.

"Traffic cams and cell phones. Cops are on the scene now."

"Jo, can you track them?"

"I can't monitor everything, Assistant Director. But what I can access indicates that several seconds of traffic and security camera footage were erased."

"Can you figure out where they went from the negative space?"

"The gaps seem to be random times, at random locations. Determining what was being obscured is impossible."

"Wait...was he coming back?"

"Going out," Schmidt said.

"That was hours ago! When did Aegis tell us about this?"

"They didn't. Chef Baptiste called and asked us why Tony was taking so long. Then the techs on duty asked Jo, and then they woke me up, and then I yelled at Aegis, and then I woke you up. I assume they wanted to try and get him back before telling Mom."

"Contacts over Europe," said one of the techs. "Loading to the globe."

Schmidt recognized the area of Germany a second before anyone else in the room.

"This is the Director. Gold alert. This is not a drill."

"The German Air Force is scrambling," someone else said.

"Tell them to get back in the dugout. They won't be able to do anything against the X-rays but die bravely." She smiled thinly. "Fortunately, I know just who to call. I'm heading to my office, first. Jocasta?"

"Yes?"

"Screen my calls." She glanced at the globe and the aliens' converging vectors. "And bump us up to red alert."

-/-

Irene Starkos raised her head at the sirens.

-/-

Elsewhere, in an otherwise empty restaurant, an airman named Rhodes picked up his phone and dialed a number. He made sure not to look directly at the face of the other person at the table, a slim woman with reddish-blonde hair, because he had never liked to see someone whose heart had just been broken.

"Yeah," he said. "He...he never showed up."

**-X-**

I _want_ to say Laura was played by Caity Loitz, but fans of Arrow will understand why that seems like typecasting. On the other hand, this is a fanfic, not an actual movie or TV series.

As for Bradford, I've narrowed it down to Eric Dane (The Last Ship), Adam Baldwin (Chuck), Max Martini (Pacific Rim), or Bailey Chase (Longmire). I put him in his late 30s/early 40s.

I stuck a paper clip chain into a light socket once. It's not an experience I care to repeat, even with twenty-odd years to dull the memory. And like they say, "write what you know".

Baptiste was the name of the Director when this was going to be a genderbend self-insert fic, except she'd be Haitian and the Director. Physically, she'd look kinda like Sheryl Lee Ralph. (Note that Irene/Eamon, who is basically just a regular old "sent into a fictional universe for no known reason" type, has retained the, ahem, matronly figure.) Aside from a few notes, the story never really clicked for me, the gender-bending never got past a few cheap jokes, and I'm kinda glad I had this fusion idea, even if Eamon wants to punch me. Chef Baptiste is a reference to that.

The "monkey" password thing is true.

_TROPHY ACHIEVED: Begun, the Drone Wars Have: Kill a HYDRA drone, Outsider, or Alien drone with an XCOM drone._


	13. 12 And the walls came tumbling down

**12 And the walls came tumbling down, in the city that we love**

**-O-**

_Blessed is he who in the name of charity and goodwill shepherds the weak through the valley of darkness, for he is truly his brother's keeper and the finder of lost children._  
><strong>-Jules Winnifield misquoting Ezekiel 25:17, "Pulp Fiction"<strong>

The Base Security officer casually swept testing equipment aside, then planted his Manticore Squad Laser Automatic Weapon on the countertop, pointed at the entryway. On the other side of the lab's center aisle, his partner, whose name Vahlen also never remembered, did the same.

"What are you _doing_?" the German asked.

"Standing by to repel boarders, ma'am," the blond American responded. His partner snickered. "I suggest you and your team find some cover."

Vahlen sputtered ineffectually for a few moments.

"Of course, you could leave entirely, but we still need to protect y'all somewhere, and this is as good a place as any."

"But you barely know me, how can you -"

"That's what sentries _do_, ma'am."

Vahlen could almost taste his determination, his dedication. It was coming off him in waves.

Her mouth worked silently for a second or two.

"The alien grenades are much more powerful than human versions," she volunteered. "Their breaching charges, if they have any, are likely to be too."

The sentry looked over his shoulder. "Thanks, Doc. We'll move back." He pulled out his sidearm. "If anything gets by us, use this."

The scientist took the American's weapon reluctantly. She knew how to handle the thing, but firing on a range was a lot different from shooting at actual enemies. Also - "What will you use?"

"Don't worry about it." He patted his far hip. "Got a spare."

Vahlen nodded. "We'll be in the Faraday Room."

"Want me to lock it from the outside, just to make it look like no one's in there?"

"_Danke_."

"You're welcome."

-/-

Schmidt knelt in front of her open safe.

She reached out and removed her gunbelt from the top shelf, buckling it around her waist. Extra magazines, checked the action. The M1911 seemed to be working just fine, despite its age.

The second shelf...

She ran her hand over the smooth surface of the object there.

No. She had a new life now, and if she picked _that_ up again, she'd never get it back.

Besides, if she needed it in the first place, something had gone horribly wrong.

She closed the door, and span the dial.

Now all they had to do was hold out for backup.

"Dunayevsky?" she said as she left her office. "Remember those RPG-7s you're not supposed to have?"

-/-

Irene vomited into the toilet.

"Urgh," she said, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand. She got to her feet, somewhat unsteadily, and jammed the stim-pen into her flesh.

That was unpleasant.

She rinsed her mouth out and washed her hands, then filled her glass with water and drank it. Better.

Irene left the bathroom, glad she could walk straight now, to find the bar's occupants staring at her.

"Lady, what do we do?"

Ah, that nickname again.

Eamon looked at the two BaseSec men, and the reserve rookie. Instead of answering, she reached for her phone.

"Singh? I'm in the bar. Send me an assault Rover, a Kriss, a gun belt, and a Base Security vest."

"Do you want us to send the Project PASSPORT prototype?"

_Did_ he...?

"No, thanks. Oh, and three Mutts, with vests and reloads. We're bringing the party to you." She hung up.

The soldiers looked a lot more confident. The barkeeper, however, looked concerned.

"Don't worry. I doubt a bar is going to be of critical strategic importance." A thought struck her, and she hit redial. "Singh? I'd like you to add one more thing to that care package."

-/-

"Ow," said Tony.

Mouth dry, headache, nausea. If it weren't for his memory, he would've thought he was in the middle of another hangover.

The ceiling was remarkably boring.

"Rise and shine, Mr. Stark," said a voice. Sounded German.

"Two sugars, please."

The voice snorted. In the corner, a camera stared at him.

"Very amusing. I am your new employer."

Tony rolled off the bed. "Pretty sure you're not."

"I assure you, Stark, we have ways of making you work."

"Better women than you have tried and failed."

What was Pepper doing now?

"I am told you do not play well with others."

"You might wanna look into getting better speakers. Seems you have a flanging problem."

"I am also told that you use insults to deflect and disarm."

"Didn't catch your name." The door to his cell was sealed with a keypad.

"Pardon?"

Tony leaned against the wall next to the keypad, facing the camera. His hands were behind his back. "I need your name, 'Boss'."

"Ah...call me Doctor Schmidt."

"One, in case you didn't get the memo, I already _have_ a boss named Schmidt. Two, isn't 'Smith' kind of obvious?"

The voice lost its uncertainty. "That _is_ what you'll call me."

"Sure, Doc. But there's something you should know."

"Oh? What's that?"

"One, you ruined my night out. Two, I am sick and tired of you people shooting at me every time I get into a car."

"Are you?" The voice sounded curious. "What to you plan to do about it?"

"This."

The door popped open.

Tony grinned at the camera.

"You really need to seal these better. Someone could just put a paperclip in the wrong spot and short the whole thing out."

The voice didn't respond, but a few seconds later, a guard appeared, and cautiously entered the room, gun drawn.

A minute or so later, the genius engineer who was closely acquainted with some of the most dangerous people on Earth walked out of his cell, holding a laser pistol. He stopped, looked back at the camera.

"By the way, I'm coming for you."

Then he blasted it.

Predictably, alarms went off.

-/-

Outside the cage, there were the sounds of laser and plasma fire. At one point, Vahlen could've sworn she hear the flat _pop_ of a plain old handgun.

She could almost taste the others' fear.

And then, silence, broken only by heavy footsteps.

Someone whimpered.

The Muton didn't even bother to unlock the door, preferring to rip it off the hinges instead. As the light flooded in, she raised her arm to cover her eyes, and found it seized in a grip large enough to crush her entire head. In the Muton's other hand was...a Geiger counter?

No, but it was very similar. The screen flashed orange, and the ape-like creature let out a huff. Then it looked at the pistol Vahlen was trying to raise with about the same level of concern as a tank being menaced with a flyswatter.

Her arm fell. The alien slammed her against the wall.

When her wits came back, she was slung over the Muton's massive shoulder. Incredibly, she still had a grip on the gun. A death grip, actually.

Come to think, didn't the reports say Mutons were basically invulnerable to small arms? The guard had to have known that. So why had he given it to her? So she could die fighting? A security blanket?

Or...

Well, it couldn't be any worse than what the aliens might do to her. Quick, clean, no fuss, no muss.

Funny. They might poke around in her brain, dissecting her. What was that instrument measuring, anyway? How German she was?

She giggled, the movement sending bolts of pain shooting through her head.

Well, the joke was on them.

They passed the top half of the second guard. Vahlen viewed the body with a sort of detatched indifference, like she was watching it on a TV screen. It wasn't real, that was just corn starch and food coloring. Those weren't real intestines. And the blond sentry's body -

He was still alive. She could feel him dying, as he reached out to her (_bleeding out, crushed sternum, plasma burns_). His despair at his failure. And then, as his hand went limp, nothing.

Reynolds.

His name had been Reynolds.

The gun dropped from her hand.

She tried to categorize what she felt, to put it in neat little boxes.

Icy fear. Throbbing pain. Firey rage and frustration.

A great deal of rage, more than she could ever possibly hold.

So she shared it.

-/-

Somehow, Masumoto had ended up being the sole real soldier in charge of the base's "back door".

Even as she yelled at the frightened BaseSecs - she _knew_ it wasn't their fault, but she couldn't help herself - she could hear the faint sounds of gunfire in other parts of the base. The rest of Voodoo was on their way, as fast as they could get. Hopefully, they would find someone there to rescue.

If not...she was ready to die with honor.

"Get a sticky on that forklift's gas tank," she said.

"Yes ma'am!" said one of her charges, picking up the grenade. "Uh...how?"

The Japanese woman stared at her, then held her breath and counted to _yattsu_. Slowly, patiently: "twist the lower portion until the prongs come out. If you twist back, then twist it again, you are holding a grenade."

Something that was almost a smile. "In which case, I suggest you stop holding it in the next five seconds."

The sentry holding the charge gave her a sickly grin, and trotted off.

The elevators at the front of the Forward Access Bay began to move.

"Masumoto?" Jo said. "I can't stop it. We should've cut off the shafts -"

"Next time, maybe." With each breath, she tried to seal away a little part of her mind that wasn't essential to the mission. A little trick she had taught herself. Didn't always work, but it seemed to be working now.

"Charge set," someone said.

"Good. Remember the fallback points."

The elevator reached the ground and opened.

"Hold fire," the medic whispered.

The...thing that emerged from the elevator was flanked by a Muton on each side. It was tall, with digitigrade mechanical legs, like some kind of animal. The torso was also heavily armored, and, oddly, its head was exposed.

"Central, enemy unknown." Some part of her was screaming, and she ignored it. "It appears to be a Sectoid in an exoskeleton. Armament consists of what looks like a heavy plasma cannon in place of one arm, and what may be some kind of projectile launcher on the other."

It would burn her. Her skin would turn pink, then black. It would hurt to touch, to have the sun kiss it.

She could distract it, but the sentries might panic or fall apart if she went down. On the one hand, she would draw its attention away from the less-armored soldiers, and if enough of them went down, they'd start panicking anyway -

"Jo? Do me a favor and blow that sticky."

When the smoke cleared, the Muton nearest to the forklift had staggered, and its left arm was a mangled mess, but it was still standing. It shook its head, and picked up its dropped rifle in its right hand, with a grunt. The Cyber-Sectoid had staggered slightly, then started to look around. It pointed one "arm" at the oversight platform in the middle of the room.

Which was exactly where Masumoto was.

As the plasma began to fly, she decided it was time to depart.

-/-

"Antony," said a voice from the ceiling.

The engineer frowned. "How many of you guys _are_ there?"

The compound where he was being held was a strange combination of military base, office, and men's club. (The classy ones, not the ones with the strippers.) But like XCom, they were fairly gender egalitarian.

Such as, for example, the HYDRA trooper who had been trying to sneak around the filing cabinet who had been abruptly introduced to one of its drawers, courtesy of the carbon dioxide from a fire extinguisher.

She groaned on the floor. A dark-haired, bearded man appeared in her field of view. "Hey. Hey buddy. How many fingers am I holding up?"

She tried to focus. "None -"

Tony looked at his fist. "Are you sure? Take a better look."

It only took one punch to knock her out.

"I am on your side," the new voice continued.

"So, good cop?"

The voice chuckled. "Not cop."

"The last guy was German. You Russian?"

"Yes. Also, not guy."

"Sorry."

"Common mistake. I want escape as much as you do. Take the next left. There's a three-man ambush setting up."

"Are you giving me directions to the fire exit, or to you? And what happened to the German?"

"Towards weapon. And he seems to have left. Let me use exploit."

Tony peeked a cell phone he had liberated around the corner, and it nearly got hit by a repulsor bolt, one which made the hair on his hand tingle and the screen fuzz briefly. He pulled the phone back and studied the picture.

"Correction; three _drone_ team."

"Thanks for the update. Can't you turn them off?"

"They locked out my access after I built them."

"After you _what_?"

-/-

The Muton guarding the door to Engineering until its backup arrived turned at the sound of some sort of machine.

As it curved into view, it turned out to be some sort of treaded automaton, racing at top speed and firing its pitifully inadequate weapon.

The Muton, were it capable, would've snorted with contempt. Instead, it bought its large shield around, just in case.

Riding the drone was a woman, holding on to the thing for dear life as it raced towards its foe. If the human wanted to commit suicide by smashing itself into a sack of meat and bone, it was perfectly fine with that.

Just before they arrived, the machine braked hard, and extended its upper section upward, sending the woman flying over the shield, where she landed to the rear of the Muton. It heard her go tumbling as she hit the floor, and would've turned to capitalize on her disorientation, if it hadn't been distracted by the two grenade-like objects that had somehow attached themselves to its pauldron.

The explosion was impressive.

On the floor, Irene grinned, blood singing in her ears. Or was that ringing? Either way, she had single-handedly - or close to it - taken out a Muton, and all it took was a horribly reckless plan that could've easily got her killed.

She stood, and was mildly surprised when she couldn't, due to a sharp pain in her right ankle.

"Well," she said, in the strongest language anyone in XCOM had ever heard from her, "_crap_."

-/-

Pena went flying from the blast of the alien grenade, and Dunayevsky, further down the corridor, gritted his teeth at the overpressure that pushed at him. He ducked around a corner to catch his breath.

"How's it looking?" said Hale.

"Sarge is down, and they are at hangar doors," the big Russian replied. He shrugged one shoulder. "So, not good."

There was a loud noise, and more pressure.

"Correction. They are _breaching_ the hangar doors," the Canadian noted.

From inside the hangar came a storm of lasers and conventional fire, presumably from security and maybe some of the aircrew who had armed themselves. The Mutons weathered it on one of their shields as they tried to pry the door open.

Which meant they had exposed their flank.

"Ready?"

The smaller woman raised his RPG-7s to her shoulders, and activated the targeting system for the left one only. The right one she would aim optically.

Dunayevsky had his doubts about its effectiveness, but he was going to be firing one himself, along with his minirocket-turret. And yet, something was bothering him, something he had forg - ah.

"Jo, connect me to the forces in the hangar."

"Connected."

He gestured to Hale, and they both stepped out into the corridor. "_Danger close!_"

-/-

They would've felt smug, were it possible.

Their transports were capable of holding the local airspace all on their own, once divested of their contents. Even the one at the base's "back door", delivering the flanking force, was back in the air, keeping a wary eye out for any local ground forces attempting to intervene.

All the invaders had to do was reach and destroy the remains of the Command Drone. It was...surprising that the humans had managed to obtain it. Nonetheless, while they were there, they could seek those who had signs of the Gift, and either secure them, or deny resources to the human Fists.

With the overwhelming force they had bought to bear, it would only be a matter of -

All of the transports suddenly exploded.

_What?_

_-/-_

The Quinjet decloaked, its panels fading back to a dark blue-grey.

_Nothing better than a sucker punch_, the pilot thought, as his co-pilot sent their second salvo of missiles at the alien ground forces. He stabilized the aircraft and tapped a button, and a light in the passenger section went from red to green.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" announced the brownish-blond man as he stood. "Please return all seat-backs and tray tables to the upright and locked position!" He strapped himself into a zipline. "Your checked baggage will be waiting for you when you exit the plane."

Some of the other SHIELD operatives grinned. The blonde woman closest to Barton rolled her eyes behind her yellow glasses.

When they hit the ground, she promptly jogged forward to get out of the way of the others. Past the extremely tempting alien wreckage. Earpiece, check. Carbine, check.

"Are you sure this is the best way to insert, Barton?" she yelled, over the sound of the Quinjet's turborotors.

"Well, we didn't have to use the swoop harnesses, so I call that a win. Especially if it means I avoid the wedgie."

"Nice to know you have your priorities in order," Bobbi Morse said dryly. She took a knee, scanned the entrances with her weapon up. "Think we've got enough men?" she asked, egalitarianism notwithstanding.

"Relax, Morse." He reached for his weapon. "We don't have to wait for the other squads. Haven't you ever heard people say -" his bow expanded with a crack like a whip "- _one riot, one archer_?"

Morse, who was from the Southwest, rolled her eyes behind her boss. "Not exactly."

-/-

When they found Schmidt, she was standing over the wreckage of three alien robot squids. In fact, one of them still had several panels flickering in and out of cloak as the blonde pointed her gun at the complete strangers rounding the corner.

"Whoa!" Barton skidded to a stop and held up his hands. "Easy, we're the cavalry!"

"_Eyes open_."

"_Swords sharp_. Schmidt, I'm Barton, and this is Morse, and these guys are very good at shooting things. Can you point that thing somewhere else, please?"

Schmidt holstered her gun.

"Thank you. What are you doing alone?"

"Someone needed to draw them off. I offered them an HVT."

"And your XO _let_ you?" Morse chimed in.

A thin smile. "'Let'?"

"You got lucky," Barton noted.

"I surely did. In addition to these guys," she kicked one, "I was going to reinforce Delta section."

"By yourself?"

"They need all the help they can get. The x-rays have introduced some kind of light mechanized unit."

"_That_ sounds like fun," said Morse.

"Lead on, ma'am," said Barton.

-/-

The first inkling the Muton had of their arrival was an arrow to the knee, since Barton noted the weaker armor there first. It punched through, and then exploded, effectively kneecapping the alien shock trooper and forcing it to halt.

No one made the mistake of assuming it was any less dangerous because it couldn't walk.

The second was Director Schmidt diving from the balcony, landing on its back, and unloading her clip into its head at point-blank range.

This stunned the big guy.

As Schmidt leapt off, she left behind a sticky of her own. It was a grenade wrapped in duct tape instead of a fancy magnetic explosive, but it was the thought that counted.

This left a chink in its armor, which Morse exploited by pouring a three-round burst into the gap. It whirled, which distracted it enough for Schmidt to kick the weapon out of its hands, put it under its owner's chin, and pull the trigger.

As the Muton's headless body swayed, she tossed its plasma weapon in a direction she was pretty sure had no people. Pretty sure.

Then she rolled behind the nearest console as the plasma weapon exploded, reloaded, and waited for the stomping boots to die down.

"Clear!" Barton called.

"Mockingbird to Control," Morse said, "Auxiliary Command is secure. Moving to assist in the mechanical bay."

Schmidt stood. "No, _he's_ Central, _I'm_ Control. Masumoto, sitrep."

"I've lost half my men!" the medic shouted over the sounds of gunfire. "It's pushed us into the mech bay and it just won't _die_!"

The American bit her lip as she thought about the contents of the secondary mechanical bay. "Jo, can you get me eyes on -"

Several of the screens nearest to her lit up with a security camera image of the new alien unit.

"Thanks."

"You have an AI too?" Morse asked.

"Mmm-hm." Schmidt turned to the SHIELD agents. "Do either of you have ropes? Strong ropes."

Both spies held up their arms, where a device was strapped to their wrist.

"Is that...?"

They nodded.

"Perfect. How do I use them?"

-/-

By the time the sentries reached the Research lab, Jocasta had cut off the sprinklers.

Sitting in the middle of a circle of ash and scorch marks, hands clasped around her knees, was Doctor Vahlen. She didn't seem to notice their entrance, or the ruined equipment that had been set on fire.

They swept the room. Ybarra wondered if the Recovery teams would just leave the bodies there, or take them out and bring them back in.

"Check the cage," the Brazilian growled to his team, as he approached the scientist. "Ma'am?"

She didn't respond.

He touched her shoulder, and she jumped. Aside from the charred clothes and thousand-yard stare, she seemed fine.

"Doctor?" His wave included the fire damage, the massive, charred bodies of the Mutons, and the smaller ones of the Infiltrators. "What _happened_?"

The redheaded German blinked at him, and her gaze slid back to one particular body, human-sized, wearing what was left of BaseSec armor.

"Oh."

She swallowed.

"They...they got burned."

-/-

The Director and the medic stood over the corpse - or wreckage - of the mechanized Sectoid, while SHIELD and the remaining BaseSec forces swept and cleared.

"Good job, Corporal," Schmidt said quietly.

"Private, ma'am," Masumoto corrected.

"No. _Corporal_."

"Oh." Beat. "Thank you, Director."

"Sorry we took so long." The older woman grimaced. "Traffic."

Despite her best efforts, the Japanese woman began to giggle.

-/-

The humans, the Exalted decided, had proven unexpectedly resilient. Especially once they were supported by their shield-force. In fact, the Collaborators had informed them that one prominent member had rallied the defenses in the attack on the human settlement called Tokyo.

It had been killed, of course.

Nonetheless, perhaps the Collaborators were not sufficient. Perhaps it was time to take a closer look at the shield, not merely the sword.

-/-

"Sir?" someone said, "incoming call."

"Hello? Anybody home?" said a familiar Californian voice.

"Stark?" Bradford said, helping one of the techs up. "Where are you? Did you escape?"

"Well...kinda. I'm still in their base."

"Where are you, exactly?"

"Not...entirely sure. Jo?"

"Already tracing."

"Right. So...when's the next bus?"

"We've been busy. Had some unexpected company suddenly show up. Unless we can get SHIELD to pick you up, you'll have to wait a few hours. Can you hold on until then? Or leave and find someplace more secure?"

"Maybe I wasn't clear; we've taken the entire base."

"How did -" Bradford paused. "_We_?"

"Oh, right, I made a new friend. Let me switch to video -"

A few seconds later, an image of Stark's face appeared on the big screen. Judging from the quality and angle, it was from a laptop's webcam.

"Can you hear me now?"

"Five by five," said the base AI.

Tony stepped back, revealing a heavyset, heavily-tattooed woman whose face looked like it had gone through some really bad plastic surgery.

"XCOM, this is Ivana Vanko. Vanko, XCOM. She's basically me, except HYDRA didn't ask nicely. Say hi to the folks."

The woman waved. Bradford waved back, before realizing that his mouth was hanging open. He shut it with a click.

Stark grinned. "So, Dad, can we keep her?"

-/-

Alberto Pena woke up in Medical, wearing one of those stupid little smocks, and with a sheet over his lower body.

"Hello?" he called.

The machine by his bed beeped softly.

He had a faint headache, and his foot ached. There was a drip running into his arm, and a sheet over his lower body.

No...just his left leg. A short sheet.

He reached for it, pulled it back.

His leg ended in a bandaged stump, just below the knee.

He stared at it.

**-X-**

**Bastille - "Pompeii"**

TROPHY ACHIEVED: Betcha can't stick it; Kill alien with sticky grenade the first time you use one.  
>TROPHY ACHIEVED: Man's home is his castle: Survive a Base Defense mission.<p> 


	14. Arc 1 Interlude (non-canon)

**Arc 1 Interlude: The XCOM Infrantryman's Informing Primer (non-canon)**

**-O-**

If you're reading this, you've probably just joined XCOM. Unless you've broken into the email of whoever this was actually sent to, in which case we will find you, and there's no such thing as XCOM.

If you're not about to be hunted down by a completely non-existent organization, congratulations! Someone thought you were good enough to take a seat at the big kids table. You get to wear your big boy / girl / non-binary boots, and will be planting them firmly in alien tuchus as soon as Command sees fit.

First things first: Operations have staff on hand to advise you with your will. This is a high-intensity combat unit, and we do what we do so no one else has to. This may include dying. If you are uncomfortable with that, feel absolutely free to leave, without shame.

/*Stark, I don't feel this is exactly the best way to broach the subject. -PS */

However, this does mean that you won't get to tell your kids that you shot aliens in the face with lasers while wearing powered armor.

/* That's an...interesting choice of words. - IS */

Time to answer some frequently asked questions.

**Do you have it in my size?**

Yes. The suits are customized to the biometrics of the current user. I can't promise there won't be some funny smells if they weren't hosed down properly, though.

**Do the suits improve accuracy?**

Yes. You can even John Woo any two weapons, but it's not a pretty picture, you won't like doing it. Mainly because you can't hit the broad side of a Muton, and you can't reload, unless you're a very good juggler. The software has to split power to track both weapons, and the bigger the weapon, the more juice it takes. Even the Sharpshooter module can only help so much. Of course, you could always tell the suit to only activate the targeting on one weapon, and aim the other the old fashioned way.

**What' this "Triple Play" I keep hearing about?**

/* Seriously, Schmidt, what is it with you and baseball? -TS */

In case of an emergency, the suit can temporarily boost three separate attributes; defense, mobility, and strength.

For the first one, it stiffens the suit's nanotubes, and gives the armor an electro-magnetic charge to resist plasma. This, of course, doesn't work so well with laser weapons, or conventional explosives. Great with ballistics, though. This mode decreases strength and mobility. The duration and efficiency can be increased with the "Aegis" mod.

Behind door number two, capacitors spool up to let the suit's "muscles" rapidly expand and contract. But you get less strength and defense. In short: _run, soldier, run!_ Try it with the "Mercury" mod. And no, not the car company.

And finally, strength mode boosts the slower contractions. Useful in the event that you, for instance, get into a distribution with a Muton, in which case you will be immediately remanded for psychiatric evaluation upon your return to base. You end up with lower you know the drill.  
>* Stark, that's hardly professional language. -PS*/  
>** Indeed. What happens if you're reading this and you realize the Chief Engineer couldn't be arsed to write a manual properly? -IS */  
>Strength mode gets the "Atlas" mod.<p>

Mobility gives you best results in the light rig, while strength and defense work best in the heavy. Trying mobility in an Achilles, without Mercury, makes it only about as fast as the Ajax. Even with Merc, you're still not quite as good as the Herakles baseline. Same with Herc and strength, just in the opposite direction. And before you ask, no, you can't double up on the mods, or use more than one mode at once. Let's just say the circuitry goes nuts. Not the "had a few drinks" nuts, either, more like "goes to work on Monday with an assault weapon" nuts.  
>*Stark, remove that line NOW. -DB */

**What about the chest beam?**

If you've watched footage of the Marseilles mission, you may have noticed the part where Private Washington fired a beam out of his chest, because it was awesome.

Incredibly enough, the suits weren't actually designed to do that.

The chest repulsor was designed to provide vertical thrust for those flight packs we never quite got to work, and we never removed it. Turns out that in an emergency, they make pretty good weapons. Your trainers have more details.

_**Weapons **_

Due to an irritating firmware glitch we can't seem to iron out, the suits are restricted when it comes to what weight they can carry. Each type of weapon fits a certain category, and the rigs can field up to 4, 5, and 6 points respectively.

Remember, these aren't exactly complete lists.

_Light (1 pt)_  
>-Standard pistol<br>-Standard laser pistol  
>-MAUL shotgun<br>-Machine pistol  
>-Sonic Stunner<p>

_Medium (2 pts)_:  
>-Kriss Super-V PDW<br>-Standard Shotgun  
>-Standard Assault Rifle<br>-Standard Marksman Rifle  
>-Standard Sniper Rifle<br>-Chimera "Mutt" Laser Assault Rifle/Shotgun  
>-Chiron "Bullseye" AssaultMarksman Laser Rifle  
>-Hestia "Spitfire" Dual-Magazine Incendiary Shotgun (Armor-piercingAntipersonnel)

_Heavy (3 pts)_  
>-Standard SAW<br>-Standard Heavy Rifle  
>-Carl Gustav Rocket Launcher<br>-Manticore Laser SAW/Automatic shotgun  
>-XM25 Grenade Launcher (Modified)<br>-Orion Variable Threat Rifle

_Equipment Slots_: 2/3/4, respectively.  
>-Drop packs<br>-Standard Grenades  
>-"Disco Ball" laser grenade<br>-Flashbangs  
>-Magnetic Sticky Grenades<br>-Smoke grenades

We also have a selection of AI-piloted drones, currently coming in Assault (Assault Rifle and shotgun) and Support (SMG, and cargo compartments). We call them Rovers. Give them little dog tags. It's adorable.

_**Modules:**_  
>The point system for these is 34/5, respectively.

-Pinger: This is your bread-and-butter. It's a Hypersonic pulse that maps out the area in an arc in front of the user and sends it to your AR display. You can narrow the arc for better distance and resolution, though. Problem is, the sensors don't do so well vertically. The only workaround we've found is to, well, lie down. Which is obviously a bad idea in a combat situation.  
>-Sharpshooter: Increases accuracy.<br>-Tigger: Increase jumping ability.  
>* Maybe you should choose a name that won't get us sued by Disney. -PS */  
>-Shoulder shooter (Achilles only): Mount a minirocket launcher on your back that pops up and fires over your shoulder. And before you ask, yes, you can technically triple-weild. But your effective range is so low, you might as well just headbutt them, which Dr. Rao says is a bad idea.<br>/* Unless you want them to get concussions, yes. -KR */  
>-Infrared Visual systems<br>-Night-vision visual systems  
>-Hephaestus Heat-Dispersal System (Heavy only): Uses laser weapons with greater efficiency and power. Problem is, you can't move very much, and the heatsinks open up, exposing your weak points for massive damage. You also show up on any infrared systems like a basketball court on a golf green.<br>-Chesty: Add a capacitor to get less wind-up and battery drain with of the chest beam.

_**Coming attractions**_  
>-Hookshot: Thanks to our Glorious Leader, we'll soon have grappling hooks, like Batman. Except cooler, because Batman doesn't wear power suits.<br>/* I don't get the name. -TS */  
>** It's a Zelda reference. -Singh */  
>*** Who? -TS */  
>* While it's an accurate description, I don't like to advertise. Change it to "the Director" -PS */  
>-Arm rocket: no, it's a small, one-use rocket that mounts on your arm. It does not shoot your arm like a rocket. For one thing, that would severely reduce combat effectiveness. For another, our studies have shown that would <em>probably<em> kill you.  
>-Passive sonic sensors: Like the Pinger, except without the pulse. Relatively short range, which increases if set to directional mode.<br>-Claymore tripmines  
>-Incendiary grenades: when you need to barbeque something in a real big hurry.<br>-Whipmine: Its a mine, and it fires whips. Electric whips that immobilize foes, and generally fry them like a pancake. Not to be operated while standing in a puddle, even if the puddle is from your drool.  
>-White Noise Silencer: Silences a standardrepulsor SMG or pistol.  
>-White Noise Silencer Mk 2: Silences a standardrepulsor assault rifle, DMR, or sniper rifle.  
>Bow: Is a bow.<br>/* Please remove this, because people might not realize you're joking. -DB */  
>** Joking? -TS */

**-X-**

Y'know, for an XCOM/Iron Man fic, this fic has had a serious Tony deficit. Let's rectify.

Yes, I'm using the same excuse for the weapon restrictions as the one Halo used to justify dual-wielding in Halo 2. "We got a firmware update!" You may have noticed Pena putting away his MAUL shotgun in Moscow when he got the Spitfire. This is why. Presumably, being in the case means it didn't register as an active weapon on Silva's rig.

Of course, it makes sense for game balance purposes; imagine if your most mobile unit could also dual-wield rocket launchers.


	15. 13 The Cold Laws of Cause and Effect

_**Arc 2: SHIELD**_  
><strong>13 The cold laws of cause and effect<strong>

**-O-**

"- But if you do decide to come, Stark, wear one of those nice suits of yours," Schmidt said. "As for the attack itself, they did a lot of damage, but nothing we can't handle," "Our losses were mainly personnel, both combatants and noncoms." She sighed. "Which means I need to go looking at resumes and writing letters."

The meeting felt empty, without Vahlen in it.

"Question; what are we doing with Vanko?" Tony asked.

"You mean, are we going to let you tear apart her escape suit," Bradford clarified.

"Guilty as charged."

"We haven't decided yet. We were thinking about shipping it - or her - to SHIELD -"

"Sorry to interrupt," said Jocasta, "but there seems to be an security breach in the cells."

"Did...did we miss an X-ray somewhere?" Schmidt asked. "Is Vanko breaking out?"

"Not exactly."

-/-

"Mrs. Starkos," said one of the two sentries.

"Gentlemen. I have some paperwork I need you both to sign." She held up the clipboard in her left hand, and a pen in the other.

The guard on the right plucked it out of her hand. At which point she whipped up the clipboard to cover the face of the guard on her left, reached under her lab coat, and blasted the first guy in the face with a Sonic Stunner.

He went down like a sack of potatoes.

She pushed the stunner into the back of the clipboard, and pulled the trigger, only for it to beep irritably at her. _Well, crap_. Before the remaining guard could realize what happened, she drew back the Stunner and smashed it into the clipboard.

Which meant that she was smashing the clipboard into his face.

While he was stunned, she turned the clipboard on its side, placed it at the bridge of his nose, and hit it again. She _felt_ the crack through the cheap particleboard, and the poor guy left off reaching from his weapon to clutch at his face.

By the time he recognized the sound of Irene resetting the Stunner, it was too late.

"Sorry," she said, to the pair of lifeless bodies.

-/-

In the Director's office, there was a brief silence.

"Did my 43-year old assistant just beat up two of the best soldiers in the world?" Tony asked.

Bradford was already running.

-/-

"Irene, please stop."

The engineer reached down. "Thank you, Jo, I'll take it under advisement." She liberated a laser pistol from the sentry's chest rig, tapped the power cell in the butt.

"Do you think this is a _joke_? Even if you do kill her, what next?"

"I hadn't thought that far." Irene tapped the cellblock door control. "Kind of liberating. Reminds me of college."

"_As ucht Dé_, Irene, _stop_!"

A brief hesitation. "Ah. You noticed."

-/-

"Why not?" Schmidt growled.

"Because the human cells were built as a second priority." Jo answered. "They're not as computerized as the alien cells. The door controls, are entirely electrical and mechanical, not electronic. _And_ they're on an isolated system. We didn't even think about installing any automated measures down there."

"Wait a second," Stark interrupted. "Isn't access to the cell block under your control? Can't you leave those door open?"

"I would, but in case you haven't noticed, she's an engineer. She jammed the door. It would take at least five minutes for even _you_ to get through from the outside, Tony, and she's already inside."

-/-

Irene entered the cell, limping slightly.

Vanko cocked her head. "Hello."

"Hello." Strangely enough, her hand wasn't shaking one little bit. "One of your weapons killed a very close friend of mine."

"I have killed many," the Russian acknowledged. She leaned to the side, to peer behind Irene. "Would expect line."

"Just me." She pointed the gun at Vanko's head, finger on the trigger.

"Would your friend want you to do this?"

Irene thought for a second. Remembered how Laura earned the nickname "Hotshot".

"For various reasons, that'll be less effective than you think."

"Shoot me, then." Vanko leaned forward.

"Wh-what?"

"I am busy woman. Do not waste my time." She suddenly wrapped his hands around Irene's, and jerked the gun so it was flush against her forehead.

"Are you crazy? Do you _want_ to die?"

Vanko looked up at her with eyes utterly without fear. Was that...contempt? "You are one holding gun."

"That's right, I am," Irene said, and pulled the trigger.

_Click._

_Click click._

"Missing something?"

The Russian's left hand held the power cell to the pistol.

Irene's eyes flicked over to it. In that second, she was hit with Vanko's rising right cross. The impact with the floor finished the job, and everything went black.

The Russian spat on her assailant, and tossed the power cell into the hallway, followed by the gun. Then she looked up at the supposedly-hidden security camera. "Come collect your _uma suka_."

-/-

"Well," said Schmidt into the silence in her office. "_I_ certainly have mixed feelings about this."

-/-

His cheek hurt.

"Wake up," said Bradford brusquely.

Her eyes opened, and immediately closed again.

"Oh, I'm sorry, are the lights too bright for you? We asked SHIELD to re-check your background."

Uh oh. She tried to lift her arms, and her hands caught on handcuffs.

"Now, as best as they can tell, there's nothing in your background that says you can do some of the things you've done. Which means you're either some kind of imposter, or it's been buried _very_ well."

_Actually, I'm an Irish kid who's been in a lot of stories involving mortal peril at the behest of some random omnipotent being, sharing headspace with the real Irene._

Sure, he'd believe that.

"First, you save Tony. Now, its not impossible that a middle-aged academic could be familiar with weapons, but its pretty unlikely. In fact, you reacted more like a soldier than a teacher.

"You also gave Stark the idea for the rigs and Orion rifle. HYDRA got their hands on the first one. You saved Washington, and gave us the idea to weaponize the chest repulsors directly. HYDRA got their own version of those, too. They made their own version of our Sonic Stunner, even though they never actually got a sample. You failed at inspiring actual flight capability. "

His voice was pleasant, conversational, and it made Eamon's blood run cold.

Irene cracked her eyes open, gritting her teeth against the sensation of glass daggers plunging through her eye sockets and straight into her brain. She was in Bradford's office, and he was leaning against the near side of his desk. Just a casual conversation, barring the fact that she was chained to a chair.

"And when the base is attacked, you're conveniently in a position that lets you save the day, at great risk to yourself. Again." He hadn't raised his voice. "Almost as if you saw it coming."

"I -"

"Oh, I forgot. When you were yelling at Jo to fire Washington's repulsor, you lapsed into Irish. Now, I could buy that you learned how to swear in some other language, it it wasn't for all the other circumstantial evidence. Like the way your accent slipped when you got drunk, where you apparently told God that you owed him three punches."

"It wasn't God, it was -"

Bradford raised an eyebrow.

"Look. I answer to a higher authority."

Her interrogator sighed. "Tell Fury that if he wants to spy on us -"

"Not Fury."

Beat.

"And not the Council, either," Bradford said slowly.

"Correct. But don't worry, my boss is on your side."

"Why should I believe you?"

Eamon jingled his shackles. "You really think that I couldn't slip these surly bonds if I wanted to?"

"Why did you try to assassinate Vanko?"

_Time to dance._

"That wasn't an assassination." _That was revenge_. "Now our Russian friend knows that he, I mean, she hurt people. Hopefully, she feels guilt. And with guilt -"

"-Atonement. You're saying you blew your cover just to improve our _bargaining position_?"

Irene shrugged, doing her best to look confident and in-control. Like Black Widow in that chair scene in Avengers. _Give him a little Charleston_. "A blown cover and bruised jaw is a small price to pay."

"Or, you know," Bradford shrugged, "you're a HYDRA spy feeding me a line, and you just tried to deny us an asset."

Funny. Eamon hadn't even _noticed_ the SOCOM pistol until Bradford drew it and placed it on the desk, near his right hand.

The tap of the gun hitting the table seemed remarkably loud.

-/-

"Moira?"

The German looked up from her tablet. "Madame Director! I -"

"Madamoiselle. No, don't get up." She crossed to the bed. "How are you feeling?"

"Tired."

"Ah. Can you remember what happened?"

"Yes, but...I would rather not talk about it right now."

"Doctor, if it puts the people in this base at risk, I'm afraid I really must in-"

"And as her doctor," Rao interrupted, "if the patient feels that it is too stressful to remember the incident -"

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry."

There was a lull as Rao looked her patient over, occasionally darting reproachful looks at her boss.

"I hope," Vahlen volunteered, "Tony's blood was not damaged."

Schmidt and Rao both said "What blood?"

"He...he didn't tell you?"

-/-

Rao burst into Tony's office.

"Can I _help_ you? Let go of me - ow! What are you -"

"A blood test." Rao pressed buttons on the device she held while the Chief Engineer of XCOM, befitting the dignity of his position, sucked his finger.

The doc started saying some very colorful things in...Indian? Was it Bengali? It was _pissed_, that was for sure.

"How do you expect me to do my job if you don't come to me?"

Uh-oh.

"Because...because if you found something, you would've told Schmidt, and -"

"Yes, of course I would've, _bhoka chele_! You remember all those papers you signed? If Medical finds something that may affect the ability of any troops or personnel to discharge their duties, we _have_ to report it! It's not about you anymore, Stark!"

"She's not...she wouldn't..."

The device beeped.

"Lovely little thing. AIM International blood tester, very expensive. Poison, blood sugar, we've been using it to monitor radiation dosage. And we could have found out about your blood toxicity in the time it took me to yell at you!"

"What tipped you off, Stark?" Schmidt said softly, from the doorway.

He didn't meet her eyes.

"Oh. Rao, I think you're wrong. This isn't about him; he's protecting someone."

She thought for a second.

"And I think I can take a guess."

-/-

Whatever they were whispering about in the hall, it wasn't good.

Eamon stared at Bradford's desk. There was a guitar pick, half hidden under some paperwork.

The door opened. Someone came in, crouched next to Eamon, and he turned Irene's head to stare into a pair of blue eyes with all the comforting warmth of an Arctic icepack.

"Irene," Schmidt said very, very softly, "did you poison Tony?"

Eamon recoiled so hard that he hurt himself. "_What?_ No, it's the palladium in his Arc Reactor!"

"I see. And how does he fix it?"

"He builds a -"

_Oh. Oh crap. So much for my little Harlem Shake_.

"Thank you." The Director rose. "You're playing...inside baseball, aren't you?"

"...Yes. I have knowledge of events from two very similar universes."

"Alternate universes. Okay, sure. How far out?" Bradford asked.

"A few months in one, a nonspecific amount of time in the other. We win, by the way."

Well, usually.

Paula Schmidt looked down at Irene as if from a great distance. She was even backlit. "We?"

"XCOM. Humanity."

"Humanity...maybe. But you stopped being part of my team the _second_ you raised a hand to our men and drew iron on my prisoner."

"I...I didn't kill them."

"No, you just knocked them out with experimental weapons, one with an attack that could've sent bone shards into his brain. That's _so_ much better. _Guards!_ Take her back to her quarters."

The door clanged shut after they left. The Director stared at it for a second before switching her gaze to the ceiling. "Very funny, God," she muttered, as her shoulders slumped.

"What are we going to do with her?" Bradford asked. "We can't keep her locked in a box forever, and we don't have the resources to keep an eye on Vanko, much less someone who _admits_ they're a spy - _why are you smiling_?"

-/-

The woman was small, and blonde, and on her first tumbler of Scotch.

"I don't know _what_ I saw," she said, to a rapt audience. "We were getting our heads handed to us, and then the Director comes in."

She took a sip.

"She dodged its fire. I'm not sure how. Next thing I knew, she did something to one of its arms, and then it gets jerked sideways. Like a puppet."

Sip.

"She used one of those grapple things the spooks had. Hooked it to a crane. Which would've just pulled it into the air, if she hadn't put one around the other arm too."

The ice clinked in the glass.

"The spooks were on the crane controls. Just pulled its arms right off. Then we finished it off before it could get up. If it could even get up."

"You expect us to believe that?" someone said.

Murphy glared at the speaker. "Check the tapes, if you like."

"Can't. They're still classified."

"Not my problem. Ask anyone who was there, they'll tell you the same." She set her glass down harder than strictly necessary. "Anyone who survived."

Someone else cleared their throat. "Uh, Chicago? It's time."

Private Murphy got off her stool, along with just about everyone else in the bar, and made sure there wasn't a single speck on her brand-new dress uniform.

"Barkeep?" she said. "Leave the bottle down."

-/-

They still hadn't gotten the Muton bits entirely off the doors.

The jet sitting in their hangar was being admired by the aircrew. The ones that hadn't been drawn away by the memorial ceremony, that is. It actually bore a strong resemblance to the Skyranger. Irene noticed the aerospike engine at the back, and wondered about their effectiveness compared to repulsors, while Eamon noted the presence of an incredibly rich engineer with a silly beard.

He was holding a red suitcase.

Eamon ignored the BaseSec guards as he marched forward. Ignored the doubtful glances they had been shooting him. What "Irene" had done was still classified, but _of course_ there were rumors. Few gave any credence to the idea that one of their top engineers was nearly seduced into a jailbreak by Vanko, who took down two guards as she tried to escape.

Few that would admit it, anyway.

"You forgot this," Tony said. "Can't leave without your _passport_."

Tony Stark, master of subtlety.

"Thanks. For everything." And then, for no reason at all, she hugged him. "_Look into what happens when two repulsors on the same frequency are fired at each other,_" she whispered.

Tony jerked back. "How do you _know_ all this -"

"Spoilers, sweetie. Bye."

She walked to the rear of the ship, and stopped dead.

It wasn't the soldiers. It wasn't the increased headroom. It was the large-ish tattooed woman in handcuffs and a mask, chained to the floor.

Eamon walked up the ramp, and sat down warily across from her, like she was a rabid dog that might bite at any time.

"Tell me, Clarice," Vanko said. "Have the lambs stopped screaming?"

Irene managed not to lunge across the jet.

Barely.

-/-

"Doctor," Bradford said, "we saw the video of what you did in the lab."

Uh oh.

"Rao's not coming to save you," Schmidt chimed in.

Vahlen stared at them both. In her mind, they had all the flexibility of a pair of granite cliffs.

"I...am a pyrokinetic. And a psychic."

They'd kick her out. Maybe dissect her. Would she fight back? Would she hurt more people?

"My exposure to Elerium may have reactivated my abilities."

Bradford said "Was it an involuntary -"

"Wait a second," the Director cut in. "'Reactivated'?"

"Well, yes." The redhead took a deep breath. "I was born in Phoenix, Arizona. SHIELD put me in a...protection program, after an...incident when I was six. They moved me to Germany."

Scmidt didn't look even a little happy. "I need to have a word with Fury about that. But for now, who are you? Really?"

"The name I was born with is Jean Grey."

-/-

Irene woke up. There was an extremely tactical hand on her shoulder.

"Ma'am?"

"Right." She removed the headset that had been supplied so graciously. Vanko had already been removed, and in the night sky, she couldn't see very much past the landing pad besides some sort of doorway.

There was a brown-skinned man in glasses with a shaven head, waiting for her by the entrance. He held out a clip-on ID.

"Liason Starkos? Jasper Sitwell. Welcome to SHIELD."

**-X-**

**Max Payne 2**

_TROPHY ACHIEVED: Russian reversal: Fail to assassinate Vanko._  
><em>TROPHY ACHIEVED: A very particular set of skills: Tell Bradford the truth. Sort of.<em>  
><em>TROPHY ACHIEVED: Rightsizing: Get Irene kicked out of XCOM.<em>  
><em>TROPHY ACHIEVED: A light dawns: Realize the writer is just making up Achievements for his own amusement, whether or not they'd make any sense in gameplay.<em>

I've repeatedly abandoned fics because of an overindulgence in gratuitous injokes and references. Which made me feel kinda hypocritical when I thought about the fact that I have two troopers based on Team Fortress 2 characters, another one named after a popular voice actress, the Sentry, and now one based on Karrin Murphy from The Dresden Files.

And yes, I felt bad about only five references out of two dozen or so humanized soldiers and security personnel introduced thus far.

Then I remembered that its tradition to have your soldiers named after something anyway.

Which made me feel _slightly_ less guilty.


	16. 14 I watch them watch me

**14 I watch them watch me I watch them too**

**-S-**

Pena limped into Schmidt's office and saluted.

"Ma'am," he said, staring at a point over his Director's head. "It's been an honor to serve with you." His eyes were bright, voice wavering. "But I...they lost Mundy, they can't lose me too. I...can still help with training. I can still -"

"Pena," his boss cut in.

His eyes dropped to meet hers like they were being slowly dragged against their will by wild horses.

"What does my desk say?" She reached out and tapped the nameplate.

"_Executive_ Director Schmidt? Ma'am?"

"Have a seat." And then she slid a folder across the desktop. "Project Glass Dagger was intended as a contingency in the event of XCOM's failure. It consisted of strategic reserves of weapons and matériel, hidden at key locations."

"For a resistance?"

"If necessary. There was also Project Narcissus, to train conventional forces in anti-X-ray tactics and tech. Bradford's idea."

"Then why does this say 'Project Looking Glass'?"

"Because recent events have made us go '_por que no los dos?_'"

Pena picked up the folder and read the executive summary. Establish XCOM sub-bases and response teams on each continent, in order to prevent a single strike from crippling them. Use that toehold to hide the caches, while also training the area's forces. Liase with locals to improve their responses to the alien threat.

"And this is where you come in."

Pena looked up.

"The bases have to be run by directors, nothing less, for political reasons. And frankly, we've had an eye on you for a leadership position since you were selected."

His eyes were shining again, but for a different reason.

"I-" He stopped, swallowed.

"Probationary position. Small command. The job's yours, if you want it...Director Pena."

A thoughtful silence. A rueful, resigned chuckle. "You're making me deal with politicians." He glared at his boss. "_South American_ politicians. _Dios mio,_ I'd rather have to deal with Americans."

"Really?"

"Well, almost."

-/-

"So what you're telling me," Fury said, "is that the aliens that are eating our collective lunch are the _little_ fish?"

"They seem to think so," Eamon admitted.

SHIELD had not been what he was expecting.

For one thing, Nick Fury was hot.

Despite her recent loss, Irene's hormones had started spiking when she saw the broad shoulders, the toned muscles, the cocky grin.

And then he had smiled and said "Miss Starkos! I am told you are not to be trusted!" in that warm, buttery baritone of his, and any pretense of rational thought went straight out of the window.

As Vanko was led off to who-knows-where, Irene responded, without any voluntary effort on Eamon's part whatsoever, "and my mother told me not to trust handsome spies." She gave a ghost of a shrug. "I guess that makes us even."

Things had devolved from there.

A small part of Eamon was worried that her first introduction to SHIELD was as some sort of cougar. Was it a cougar when the man in question was only a few years younger? Laura had been, what, 18 years younger? What did they call lesbian cougars?

By the time they reached the conference room, most of the agents flanking them had started to get slightly pained looks on their faces. It had to be disappointing, to expect some sort of menopausal quota-filling Black Widow and get a not-cougar. At least it got them to relax a little. At least it kept her mind off her uncertain future.

Now, where had he seen Fury before?

And then the laughs went away as she gave them the broad strokes. Escalating alien invasion, hidden temple ship they'd blow up if they thought they were really losing, and a second potential alien invasion in the near future.

"Could...could this second invasion be the one they're preparing for?" Sitwell asked.

Eamon grimaced. "Doubt it," he said, after a moment's thought. "While this second invasion is formidable, it seemed to be based mostly on establishing air superiority. They didn't seem to have much staying power, so to speak."

Fury didn't even rise to the inadvertent bait. He had both eyes, for some reason, and was wearing a blue dress shirt with sleeves rolled up that probably cost more than what Irene made in six months as a professor. He looked like a model, really.

"Where did you get this info?" said one of the agents that Eamon didn't even know the name of.

"A little alien told me," Eamon said flatly. "You know, pillow talk."

The agent gave a razor-edged smile, but before they could do more than open their mouth -

"I think I should give that information to senior agents only, and let them decide whether it should be public knowledge."

"Fury," said a gorgeous woman on one of the room's screens with a white streak in her hair, "are you going to believe this...this..._sciocchezza_?"

"Of course not!" Fury exclaimed. "First you verify, _then_ you trust." His eyes narrowed. "And if I find out you are lying to me, if you are trying to lure my people into some kind of trap, then I will find a deep, dark hole where you will never see the light of day again."

Suddenly, the pleasant, personable smile again. "Got it?"

It felt like a bucket of cold water had just been dumped on her head. "Got it."

The Italian woman didn't stop looking disgruntled, but she glowered a little less.

"Is there anything else we need to know?" the nameless agent groused.

Irene blinked. "Yes, actually. Let me tell you about Banner and New Mexico."

-/-

"Dunayevsky?" asked Bradford.

"_Da_?" said the massive Russian. He replaced the weight on the rack, and sat up.

"Don't you need a spotter?"

The soldier's lip curled with amusement. "Perhaps if I was American. But I think you did not come here to talk about my strength training."

"No. I came to talk about your rockets."

The literary scholar cringed, just a little. "All out."

The XO sat down on the next bench. "I'd like to know where you got them."

"Does this have to do with the attack?"

"Yes. We're trying to plug any security holes. Which means we have to find them."

"Ah." Dunayevsky thought for a moment. "I would place coded message through computer. Go to dead-drop, smuggled in in pieces." He shrugged. "Supply dried up when supplier vanished."

"Is there any way we can talk to him, or someone close to him? See if they tracked us down somehow?"

Again, that amused look. "Yes, if you hadn't just sent her off to SHIELD."

-/-

"I almost have to thank HYDRA," Vanko said.

Morse blinked. "Didn't they kidnap you, hold you against your will, and force you to build weapons?"

"Besides that." The Russian waved a dismissive hand. "Multimeter."

Morse handed her the device, and Vanko stuck her head into the chest cavity of her escape suit.

"That will be repaid, in time." Her voice echoed. "And you forgot keeping me from my father's side as he died."

"Is that why you're so...cooperative?"

"Partially. But, much of my friends were arrested shortly after I was taken. The Moscow incident did not help. If I had not been taken - " she emerged from the machine "- I would be in a cell. Or perhaps in hiding somewhere, drinking myself to death. But here I am." She spread her arms. "With exciting new job opportunities!"

It had occured to Morse that whoever had named this little setup "Project PAPERCUT" probably a) was a World War II buff (or at least had read a few Wikipedia articles) and b) thought they were being pretty clever.

"How did Stark drive this thing?"

"Poorly. Had punched...six terrorists before realizing it was armed."

It seemed to be built on the lines of Stark's escape suit, except, of course, not made out of a box of scraps. There was much more armor coverage, more flat planes than curves, and from what Morse had seen of the notes XCOM's techs had sent over with it, it had both a chest-mounted repulsor, two more arm-mounted ones, and some kind of winch system in the palms.

"I can't believe they let you build this thing."

"It was testbed," Vanko shrugged, climbing down. "Useless without Arc Reactor. Fortunately, Tony Stark happened to have one on him."

"I assume that's why it has the heat-dispersing thermal underlayer? For XCOM's laser weapons, as well as more conventional armament?"

"_Da_."

"And the fact that it could grind any human or drone guards HYDRA had into hamburger was just a bonus."

"You have no idea how hard it was to come up with a heat-dispersing thermal underlayer that was also electricity-dispersing underlayer."

"Speaking of which, we'd like you to see what you can do to get that suit up to frontline standards. See if you can rig up a whipmine launcher or something. Or even just electric stun grenades."

"_Da_. Will give world peace and white Christmas too."

"Since it has to stand up to plasma, not just lasers, you'll be working with Bruno Horgan, one of our best experts on heat. Our lab boys and girls are very interested in that plasma weapon. Oh, and you'll be debriefed and assessed later. May I ask a question?"

Vanko put down some expensive-looking instrument. "Yes."

"Why don't you hate Stark? His dad kicked your dad out of the country. He died penniless. Rubleless. Whatever."

"_The sins of the father are visited upon the son_," Vanko quoted. Then she shrugged. "I am not son."

"That's very literal."

"If there is anything that my time as their captive has taught me, it is that revenge is pointless. Except for the -" something Russian and doubtless profane "who killed my bird." A smile. "If not myself, then indirectly."

Was...was she serious?

The agent stared at the repulsors on the arms. They were mounted so that someone could aim them just by raising an arm. Repulsors were proprietary Stark Industries tech.

Which meant that they were either capable of making their own, or, more likely, that they were stealing them from one of the biggest defense contractors on Earth. Morse grimaced internally. Great.

"Okay, that's everything. I was up all night setting up this lab and the living area for you, so I am _bushed_."

She turned toward the door, and the two sentries there.

"One last thing." Morse turned back, to find that Vanko looked almost eager. "Do I get codename?"

"A _what_?"

"Codename. Or number. Like double-oh-seven."

"I'm pretty sure that'll get us sued," Morse said automatically.

"Please?"

"Oh, for...fine. Your file said you used to to run car accident scams, right?"

"_Da?_"

"Great. Then you're 'Whiplash'. Bye."

-/-

"Miss Starkos," Fury cut in. "Coulson died months ago. He was in Tokyo during the terror attack, tried to rally the defenses."

"Which," Hill noted, "made him a high-value target."

"Oh," Irene said. And then;

"Oh, _crap_."

-/-

It was nice in the park, for this time of year. The sun was shining, the coffee was warm, and th-

"Afternoon!" said Smith, as she sat down next to him.

Stane's sandwich turned to ashes in his mouth.

"I come here to get _away_ from work," he growled at the redhead. She was wearing what would ordinarily be a quite fetching light brown overcoat, and what would ordinarily be a quite fetching smile.

For some reason, it reminded him of a viper.

"What is with that _hat_?" She tapped the rim. He was familiar with the whole _invading personal space_ trick, and it was even more irritating when the weaker party already _knew_ they were the weaker party.

"It's a trilby. What do you want?"

"I want to know what's with that hat. But I'm really here to tell you of some exciting new opportunities."

The hair stood up on the back of his neck.

"Go on," he said cautiously.

"You may be contacted by another associate of ours. Name's Killian. He has some interesting ideas on the limits of human potential, and we'd like you to get together and...brainstorm."

He didn't ask why. His gut told him that something had gone wrong _somewhere_, and if he could find out what, maybe he could leverage his way out from under Lerna.

She got up, dusted herself off. Stane waited until he could hold it in no more and asked "How'd you find me?"

"We've got a tracker set up on your phone's GPS signal along with surveillance teams watching you around the clock." She shrugged. "Or I just asked your secretary. We redheads have to stick together, you know." And with that, she sashayed off.

He suddenly realized that he had crushed his egg-salad sandwich to a pulp, and shoved it into the brown paper bag he had bought it in. )

The industrialist noticed a jogger staring at her as she left. He turned to Stane, opened his mouth-

"Trust me, kid," the older man growled, lobbing the remains of his lunch into the trash, "she's a maneater."

-/-

"Not that I don't appreciate having my rear sniffed," Irene said as she, Fury, and Hill entered another office, "but what was _that_ about?"

Fury directed her at one of the two chairs in front of the desk, and sat down himself. Hill leaned against the wall to his right, arms crossed. If this was his office, it was funny that he had a safe, just like Schmidt.

...And why did thinking of her office cause that little twinge in her chest?

"That? That was just introducing you to your new coworkers. They don't know about any parallel universes, so the source of your knowledge is safe. Though you might not be, once they figure out you're a cougar."

Eamon tried to hide the wince.

"Nonetheless, you're in a delicate position, Miss Starkos."

"Or whatever your real name is," Hill added.

"I suppose you're wondering why you're not tied to a chair in the basement getting Gitmo'd."

"The thought _had_ crossed my mind."

"The simple answer is that you're on probation. Officially, you're our liason with XCOM. Unofficially, you're also an intelligence asset."

"And by 'unofficially', you mean that most of the senior command staff knows it already."

"Your codename is '_Cinna_'."

"The Senator who killed Julius Ceasar, or the innocent poet who was mistaken for him and torn apart by an angry mob?"

"That is an excellent question. You should think about it."

"Wait, wait, hold on. Why are you trusting me _at all_? I mean, if I'm the liason, and I _am_ an enemy agent, then that gives me the chance to further sabotage both XCOM and SHIELD."

"Well, let's just say I have a gut feeling. Whoever you are, you're a good engineer-"

"Not Stark-level, of course," Hill interjected.

"- And a capable administrator -"

"Which you'd have to be, to keep Stark in line."

" - And frankly, you wouldn't be the first spy I've...harnessed."

"Ah," Eamon said, followed by Irene's "a harness. So will there also be a blindfold and handcuffs involved?"

"Not until at _least_ the third date," Hill said.

"That's _my_ line," Fury said, lips twitching at the corners.

"Sorry, boss. Thought I'd save you the trouble."

"And as for sabotage..." His eyes went flat again. "You'd _try_. Now, in order to perform your duties effectively, there's some information you should have."

Fury placed his elbows on the table, interlaced his fingers, and looked at Irene over them. "Miss Starkos, have you ever wondered why your organization had the names of so many aliens already?"

That was a very good question.

"Did you think that this was the first time aliens paid us a visit?"

Well, no, there was the backstory of Thor, but Fury seemed to be on a roll.

"Let me brief you about a little program from 1962. A Cold War program that's still classified." He slid a folder across the desk. "The Executive Combined Operations Mandate."

_Wait a second -_

The folder had "X.C.O.M." neatly typed on the front.

"Or," Hill chipped in "as everyone called it, The Bureau."

**-H-**

**The Servant - Cells**

_[Game of Thrones theme intensifies]_

_FUNFACT_: Horgan is not an original character. He appeared in an MCU comic, under the name of "The Melter", where he fought Iron Man, and won. And the same with War Machine. Couldn't beat them both, though. He's based on a 616 villain who stumbled upon a beam that melted Iron Man's suit.

Fury is played by the Old Spice Guy. I'll leave the "Hel-_lo_, squaddies..." jokes as an exercise to the reader.

_FUNFACT_: 616 Fury, in the 60s heyday of Bond, was portrayed as something of a ladies' man, IIRC. And here he is flirting - or at least pretending to flirt - with Irene. It was supposed to be a reference to the Old Spice Guy's exaggerated sexiness, but it turns out it may actually be thematically appropriate.

The Contessa is played by Monica Bellucci.


	17. 15 He does all he can

**15 In a dangerous world he does all he can**

**-S-**

Tony Stark hurried into his office, swiping at his face with a rag. He tossed it in the general direction of the wastebasket and said to the air, "Jo, pick up."

The flashing XCOM emblem faded out, replaced with his ex-assistant in some kind of communications room, smiling, some bald guy in glasses at her elbow. Hispanic?

Come to think of it, that smile looked a little strained. And familiar. Like the one he saw in the mirror sometimes, when he was about to power through a hangover.

"Tony?"

"Irene! Hi!"

"You seem out of breath."

"Well, we just built a particle accelerator."

"I assume that out favorite Scot will be there shortly to yell at you. On my end -" German accent " -my top secret mission to infiltrate and destroy SHIELD proceeds as planned."

Sitwell frowned at her. Several of the other agents in the comm center didn't seem too pleased either, though some chuckled.

"Glad to hear it. We're testing the new element now, but it seems to be toxin-free. We're calling it Starkium."

"Bit egotistical, don't you think?"

Roguish grin. "What made you think it was named after me?"

"Oh. Um, thanks-"

"It's named after Dad."

Irene rolled her eyes.

"How you holding up?" Tony continued.

That smile got a little sharper. "I'm trying to set up proper lines of communication and resource-sharing between two secret agencies, one of which doesn't actually exist, while also being used as an intelligence asset." She shrugged. "Still not as hard as being your assist -"

She stopped abruptly, tuned to a tech nearby, pointed at the screen. "Zoom." The tech nodded, and did something with the mouse. Irene stared at his image intently. What was she -

He reached up, touched his cheek. It came away with black smudges.

"Tony Stark, _did you just set something on fire_?"

-/-

"There are three benefits to synthesizing my Dad's element," Tony had said. "One, more power for the base. Bases. Two, more power for the suits, so maybe I can finally get those flight modules running."

"Even assuming you can prove its not some sort of HYDRA trap," Schmidt had said, jogging in place, "what's the third reason?"

"Oh, yeah. I won't die."

Beat.

"I'm sorry, should I have led with that?"

-/-

"Turned out we didn't exactly aim the emitter properly. Good thing Dummy was there with the extinguisher. Still, it's given me some Ideas."

"Tell Singh to remind you yo do things like eat and sleep."

"Yeah..." He felt the grin slide off his face. "They all miss you."

A raised eyebrow. "They?"

He had to cough, all of a sudden. "Well...back to work."

Irene smiled at him. "Bye, Tony."

"Bye. See you at the meeting."

-/-

The SHIELD shrink was rather angular, Eamon thought. Big blue eyes, pointed chin, strong cheekbones, long arms and legs. Slim, not really shapely, like Irene was, or muscled, like -

Well, like some people.

"Tell me about your mother," she said, in a British accent.

Eamon stared at the other woman, until she noticed the slight curl at the edge of her lip.

"Had me going," he admitted, smiling back at her.

"Ah, _there_ it is," said the psych - psychologist? Psychiatrist? "First time I've seen a real smile on your face since you started here."

"A real...?"

"As opposed to this." The women exposed her teeth. Eamon recoiled. "Yes, exactly. The flirting, too."

Eamon raised an eyebrow. "Are you telling me Fury isn't attractive?"

"And there's the deflection. Your girlfriend just died, Irene, and your file says you took _months_ to ask her out. But here you are, practically jumping down Fury's pants from the second you walk in, even though everyone knows you're a spy. You know who you're acting like?"

Actually, Eamon didn't like men, but Irene did, so he had decided to play along. "Enlighten me."

"Tony Stark."

"_What?_"

"You don't see it? Charming, attractive, intelligent engineer uses sex as a substitute for emotional intimacy after losing a loved one they wish they had been closer with. All you need is the substance abuse problem and a silly beard."

"You think I'm attractive?"

"Deflection again. What I think is that someone who tried to kill a man over a woman isn't going to get over her that quickly. I also think that your little 'just as planned' story is complete rubbish."

"I-"

"What I don't know is whether you're a vengeful woman who happened to get her hands on classified info, a HYDRA spy who got too deep in her cover, or a spy from some other faction."

"And how exactly do you plan to resolve your uncertainty?"

"What have you been told about The Bureau?"

**-/-**

_"I am noticing a _lot_ of black ink here," Irene had said._

_"Like I said; classified," Fury had said._

_"We could give her the Cliff Notes version," Hill had suggested._

_"They still make those?"_

_"Good question, sir."_

_"Okay, here's the...Twitter version. 60s, secret alien invasion. We blamed it on attacks by the Russians, but it was actually a series of surgical strikes by hand-picked teams of operatives, inspired and led by the Howling Commandos, and Agent Sharon Carter."_

_"Why didn't SHIELD handle it?" Eamon had asked. And why hadn't he known about it? Was this part of that FPS XCOM? The one everyone hated?_

_"Because there barely _was_ any SHIELD, by that point. The SSR was turned from a wartime agency to...curators. The 084s -"_

_A raised eyebrow from Irene._

_"...Right. The _unknown objects_ HYDRA had collected were locked away."_

_"To be studied by 'top...men'?"_

_"Actually," Hill had chimed in, "we were low on the priority list for top men. Stark - Howard Stark, that is - was siphoning them all off for Stark Industries, and you'll recall that there was another war on."_

_"_It's a game, my dear Watson, a shadowy game,_" Irene had muttered to herself._

_"What?"_

_"Nothing. So, The Bureau."_

_"When the aliens started to invade, the government activated a secret project they had prepared in the event of a Communist invasion. Recruiting top scientific and military personnel to fight and study them."_

_"Sound familiar?"_

_Eamon's head was spinning. "So, wait, you're saying that XCOM is fifty years old?"_

_"The Bureau was folded into SHIELD, which got a serious budget increase. In time, we drifted mainly towards intelligence -"_

_Which, for some reason, required a flying aircraft carrier._

_"- But we didn't have the fast reaction force necessary to deal with the current crisis."_

_"What does this have to do with the names?"_

_"Many of the aliens we've encountered in this invasion were in the last one, though it didn't exactly seem...voluntary. We're not sure if they were mercenaries, or escaped, or sold as slaves to get that year's budget in the black."_

_Eamon had snorted. "So...is this an encore performance?"_

_"You tell me."_

_"Ah..." Something caught Eamon's eye, a single word that wasn't blacked out. "What...what did HYDRA have to do with it?"_

_"Pretty much the same thing they're doing now; getting in our way. They've laid low until recently. Some of our analysts were even saying that they had disbanded entirely."_

_Eamon had thought of his first day on the job, of the little body - _

-/-

"I...I kinda went into shock back then," Eamon admitted. "When I saw that dead kid. I was trying to make it make _sense_, to make it logical."

"That's perfectly normal. But let me ask you something; wasn't it frustrating to see more marker than text? Don't you hate it when people keep secrets from you?"

"Yeah, I - _oi_! I see what you're doing, and it's not the same! Besides, you're a psychologist, you keep secrets for a living."

"So what you're saying is that some secrets have to be kept, for people's good."

"Yes."

"But you told Tony about the poison, and tried to kill Vanko. You revealed your combat skills during the base invasion, and took some unnecessary risks, when you didn't have to."

"Well, those rookies just looked so _helpless_ -"

"_Irene! Enough_ with that bollocks! Why did you break your cover?"

"Because..." Eamon looked away. "Because I held back, I thought just helping Tony was enough, and someone I cared about a lot got hurt."

She took a deep breath, summoned what she could remember of The Game.

"And I can't let that happen again. I have to go."

"Why? What for?"

"I need to tell Fury about the Cyberdiscs and Floaters and Sectopods."

The British woman stared as Irene rushed out, leaving the door swinging behind her.

"Good luck...?"

-/-

Despite Tony's best efforts, some of Irene's Shakespeare quoting had rubbed off on him. So, as they started the holo-conference, he had two competing references in his head. One was _help me Obi-Wan, you are my only hope_. The other was _when shall we three meet again? In thunder, lightning, or in rain?_

Or, in this case, in their secret underground bases on two different continents.

"Y'know, as the Chief Engineer, I can't help but notice that I didn't even know that your office even had holograms."

"Look, Stark," Schmidt said, "if you hadn't been busy being captured by terrorists, you would've been here when they were installed. It's no one's fault but yours."

"And the Ten Rings, of course," Bradford said.

"But mostly yours."

The banter was interrupted by Fury and Hill appearing. Tony was a little disappointed that they weren't blue and fuzzy.

"Chief Stark," Fury opened. "Any advice for dealing with your ex-assistant?"

"Uh...Don't get her wet, don't feed her after midnight, and - crap, what was the third one?"

"Sunlight," Hill supplied.

"Right. She tans easily, give her really strong sunblock."

"Got it," Fury said. "How's South America doing?"

"Over to you, boss."

"Pretty well," Schmidt said. "Pena said hi to the folks, started setting up a base, and is already developing training for conventional forces."

"We've got more manpower," Hill said. "Need some help?"

"Thanks. I'll talk to...where _is_ Miss Starkos?"

"Not sure. Her psych evaluation should be over by now. Guess she's running late."

"Hmm."

"There's something that's been bugging me," Bradford said. "The x-rays are communicating with HYDRA, so why not just tell us what they want?"

"Maybe this _is_ what they want," Fury shrugged. "Maybe they don't really _get_ humans."

"Or maybe they do," Schmidt said. "If a bunch of aliens came along and offered us a free lunch, how long do you think it would be before we stopped fighting long enough to accept?"

Hill blinked. "Wait, are you saying they're making themselves a threat to unite humanity? I think I've heard of that plan before, and _it didn't end well_."

"Or maybe," Tony said, "like many bureaucrats, they just found what works for them, and don't want to change."

Everyone looked at him.

"What? I was a defense contractor, I know how governments work. Or...not work. Speaking of which, we're almost done with the first round of pulse weapons. Enough to send you a sample, with a free toaster thrown in."

"Well, we'll have our people take a look at them," Fury said.

Bradford cleared his throat. "About that. How do you know you can trust Vanko? Or Horgan?"

Fury shrugged. "It worked with Dr. Zola. Besides, there's a saying; trust but verify."

"In the other direction," Hill said, "you'll be receiving jump packs and stealth hides shortly."

"Um...I saw the specs and I'm just going to come out and say it," Tony said. "_Why are you using Elerium?_"

Fury blinked. "Why are you _not_?"

"Tony?" Schmidt interrupted. "I'll take this. Because we don't want to depend on the enemy for our power source."

"Riiight." Fury leaned forward. "Because relying on one man is so much better. How exactly were you planning to power your shiny new particle accelerators?"

"Wi - _how do you know about that?_"

Fury gestured toward his face, smirking. "_Spy._"

Bradford saw the thunderclouds gathering over his boss' head and tried to avert the oncoming argument. "What Schmidt means is -"

"_What I mean_ is it's stupid to rely on black-box tech in the middle of a war - "

"It's _because_ we're in a war that we need every advantage we can get? I seem to recall a certain shield -"

Luckily, that was the point where the sorely-missed liason arrived in Fury's office. "Director!"

"Yes?" both Schmidt and Fury answered, and glared at each other.

Irene slapped her tablet down on the desk, poked at it for a few seconds, and a still image popped up on the imaginary pane of glass between the two offices.. "There."

"It's a blur," Hill noted.

"I _know_. But it's a very _consistent_ blur, caught on lots of different cameras during the Moscow terror attack." She bought up more images. "I backtraced the plasma artillery."

"None of our analysts could figure out where it was coming from," Schmidt admitted.

"That's because we were all assuming it was land-based. This -" another image, hand-drawn, resembling a classic flying saucer is "- is a Cyberdisc. It can transform into another, less-armored form that has a plasma rifle and a grenade thrower."

"Miss Starkos..." Bradford said slowly, "is this from one of those timelines you were talking about?"

"Mmm-hm."

"And do you have anything else you'd like to share with the class?" Fury said.

Irene smiled.

As he looked at his friend's face, Tony Stark thought of another quote, a Chinese curse. _May you live in interesting times_.

-/-

He could've watched from his room, or found a lounge. But instead, Eamon wandered up to the comms room he had called Tony from, where someone named Victor Hand was overseeing the mission, whatever it was. The blonde agent who had helped defend XCOM was there, coffee in hand. Or was her body just messed up from the lack of natural light?

_Buried alive. Buried...alive._

Clearly Tony had been rubbing off on her.

"Agent Bobbi Morse, Project PAPERCUT." She shook, gestured at the screen with her caffeinated hand. "This isn't exactly your wheelhouse, is it?"

"Don't know. I heard there was a mission, wandered in. All I know is that it's in France." What was the time difference between the base and France, anyway?

"How?"

"That tech over there is speaking French. Of course, that could also be Belgium, Switzerland, Algeria..."

Over the next few minutes, Irene learned that the op was, in fact, in France, and it involved an attack on a convoy carrying something _très__ important_ . So important, in fact, that they couldn't actually tell the agency they went crying to what it actually was. Viper Team was just supposed to secure the area, but not open any of the convoy vehicles.

"Of course," Morse smirked, "that doesn't mean we can't find out what's in them."

-/-

He had been sleeping off a hangover when the Call came. Two words, a pause, details, repeated once. It took him a few minutes to realize that, yes, it was real, and a sick combination of anticipation and fear rose in his gut.

According to the briefing, they were to ambush the three trucks of the convoy. Due to a "planning error" their separate routes would happen to cross the dam at the same time. They would jam their radios, neutralize the drivers and escorts, recover HYDRA's lost little lamb, and be on their way. The dam was an excellent place to ambush the trailer-trucks; their occupants couldn't flee the road, and they were all snarled in the morning traffic anyway. All the HYDRA forces had to do was wait for their ride out to arrive, since the civilians on the bridge had inconveniently left their cars behind when they were fleeing in terror.

Six and the other five members of the HYDRA strike team worked frantically to get the first truck in the convoy open. It was disguised as a simple commercial vehicle, and a few minutes work with cutters had the padlock off. Which only left the hidden lock, the one that was much more complicated.

While Jacques-One did something extremely technological, everyone else watched the perimeter. Six's hands drummed the grip of his weapon. The little pills they had gotten were holding off the hangover, but he felt jittery, keyed up. or maybe that was simple excitement.

"Hey," said Three.

He turned to look at her. (_Light brown skin, possibly Algerian or Turkish_.)

"What were you doing before?"

He blinked. "Sleeping. I had a few drinks after work. Then a few more. Then I woke up on my front doorstep with the taste of vomit in my mouth." He made a curling sort of gesture, near his mouth. 'Actually, it was one of my better nights out."

Her eyes crinkled, behind the bandanna. "I'm in marketing. Lots of traveling, lots of dealing with people with sticks up their rears, as the Americans would say."

"How does it pay?"

A grimace, now. "Not enough."

"It's open!" One called.

They formed up on the doors, swung them wide, pointed their guns into an empty container. It wasn't _disappointing_, really, just...well, yes, it was disappointing.

"Next one," Six ordered. Two and Four reactivated the safeties on their purple-striped grenades.

Strange that they had only been assigned one tech expert. Perhaps there were no more in range of the staging area. They could've been given explosives, but maybe the cargo was valuable.

As he passed the cab of the second truck, he stepped over the body of the driver, which had fallen out of the door after they started their ambush. The lasers had done horrible things to his face, and Six tried to ignore the smell of cooking pork. _For the greater good_.

They had just reached the back doors of the truck when he felt it. A slight stirring in the air. He looked up; nothing there, even as the wind grew stronger. The others were looking around too, and he ordered defensive positions.

Which was when the robot suit fell out of thin air less than a dozen metres away.

Even as his mind tried to wrap around the idea of some kind of cloaked ship, his team opened fire. He was proud of them, even as he realized that the thing was just standing there. Weathering the hits. He called cease fire, drew a grenade. It probably wouldn't do any more good, but -

It raised a finger, waggled it from side to side. It had glowing eyes, and a glowing spot in the middle of its chest, and the spots where their fire had hit were rapidly cooling even as he watched.

And then it spoke, in a voice of thunder.

"_My turn._"

Then it raised its arms and fired _ray guns_ at them.

They weren't lasers. They didn't look like lasers, didn't hit like them. One struck the car Three was hiding behind, and knocked it back several feet, electricity dancing across its surface and, perforce, her. She fell to the floor and didn't move. Someone even managed to get a grenade off, but the robot didn't even _notice_.

And Six couldn't help but notice that it wasn't actually trying to kill them.

The car he was behind was knocked back several feet, and Six was knocked over, the windows showering him with shards as they burst. As the vehicle settled and his head cleared, he looked down and found that his right leg was bent the wrong way, and there was something poking at the skin from the inside.

"Fall back!" he coughed, fumbling for the Syringe on his belt. "Fall ba-"

There was pressure on his arm, then a sharp pain, and the suicide device fell from his nerveless hand.

He stared at the gash in his wrist, noted how _neat_ it was, how _precise_, how the numbness was spreading up his arm...

Someone turned him around, pushed him back against the ruined car. He looked up, past the tactical gear, into a pair of pitiless eyes.

Framed by, oddly, pink hair.

It was so hard to _think_-

"Leighton to Base," she said, as she reversed her grip on her knife, the blade a blurring flash of morning sunlight. "Got their leader."

And the pommel came down on the terrorist's forehead.

-/-

Irene's mouth was hanging open.

"As you can see on..._that_ drone," Morse pointed, "Rumlow is sniping from up on the ridge, in a stealth hide. Sgt. Leighton, as you just saw, prefers the up-close and personal approach. She likes to put paralytics on her knives, just in case. And Sitznski -"

The large blonde woman simply threw a terrorist into a car. Unfortunately for him, this didn't knock him out.

"- Well, she used to work on an oil rig. She favors the direct approach."

The other woman nodded. She was looking at a screen that had - ah.

"Yes, that's Vanko's suit," Morse clarified. "Why I'm here."

Irene's mouth closed with a sharp _click_. "You just let her go out like that?"

Bobbi smiled. She loved the whole "cryptic statements" bit. "Not exactly."

In front of them, one of the techs stiffened. "Sir-!"

-/-

When the alien dropship arrived, it was met with a storm of laserfire from the appropriated HYDRA weapons, as well as the plasma sniper rifle Rumlow had. The Sectoids were scouts, the Mutons acted as shock troopers, and the Infiltrators used their mobility to flank.

In theory.

Unfortunately for them, they hadn't counted on a certain liason providing intel from the SHIELD comm center. The soldiers scattered before the charge of Mutons, taking shots at their vulnerable rear armor before melting away. The false-humans ran headlong into their opposition's superior mobility, in the form of the jetpacks they had used to descend from the ridgeline and surprise the HYDRA forces, while Sitznski, the team's support gunner, suppressed them as best as she was able. And the distraction that had allowed them to do so complained bitterly in Russian about wasting her suit's armament on small fry.

All in all, it was a productive engagement.

Right until they learned about the second alien aircraft.

-/-

"Say again, Base?" Leighton said.

"An enemy fast-mover is headed your way. Possibly a ground-attack craft, such as that gunship XCOM engaged. I suggest you seek cover."

"Well, that's a nice sentiment," the Texan drawled, "but _where_? We're more exposed than a pat of butter on a griddle here!"

-/-

Morse winced.

"Something wrong?" Eamon asked.

"It's just...she tries so hard. She's from Texas, sure, but she spent most of her life in New York. I bet she studies those hokey sayings. She sits down, writes a list and memorizes it. That's not even her real _accent_."

Eamon tried not to smile.

-/-

"Got it!" Jenkins said. He was holding up a device to the side of one of the trucks. "Looks like...a person. Someone being transported, maybe?"

"And yet, she's wearing handcuffs," Leighton noted. "And since we can't leave some poor, innocent person to be blown up by aliens, we'll have to open the door." She pouted. "Very sad. Brock?"

"On it," said Rumlow. A second later, a green bolt vaporized the lock to the trailer.

"Much obliged. Stack u-"

A woman in red kicked the door open, jumped down, and ran.

"Runner!"

-/-

More soldiers. She didn't recognize them, but it didn't matter. All she needed to do was get away.

She looked over her shoulder as she rounded a trailer, and almost ran straight into a massive suit of armor. The helmet looked down at her. "And where are you going, _alyy_?" a woman's voice said, in English.

_No_, she thought, backing away. She couldn't let them catch her again.

There was a feeling in her head, like it was about to burst -

She _couldn't_ -

"**Leave me _alone_**!" she screamed, and a burst of energy surged out from her. It felt like tingles on her skin, and all the soldiers rocked back a step, even the ones in the suit of armor. She fought off the dizziness, turned to run -

- And froze.

It was one of the big aliens, the green ones. She had seem them at the Facility, in the form of pictures, video. but never in person. Never dead. And beyond that, one of the little ones, and the one that looked like humans -

"You...you can kill them?" she said, numbly. The soldiers looked at each other, and she repeated the question in English.

The large blonde woman snorted. "_Can we kill them,_" she repeated.

The young woman stared.

The woman with pink hair tilted her head. "Got it," she said. "We need to move, _now_."

"Move _where_?"

"Anywhere that isn't about to explode. Base, _where's our ride_?" She listened for a second, then grimaced. "That don't impress me much."

"Where are we _going_?" the captive asked again.

"I'll think of something."

-/-

"Agent Hand?" Irene said. "I assume SHIELD agents are required to learn how to swim?"

-/-

Six woke up just in time to see the front of the big robot suit opening up like a flower, and the unknown soldiers manhandling him into it. One of them noticed his fluttering eyes.

"Don't worry, kid," the blonde ginned. "It's _probably_ airtight."

The suit shut on him just before he started to scream.

As it turned out, the drone suit was soundproofed.

-/-

When the gunship popped up over the ridgeline, it wasted little time acquiring the only active heat sources on the road, sorting them out from the dead bodies of their brethren, humans, and even a few bodies floating in the reservoir. One might imagine that its pilots were contemptuous of the humans trying the trick of hiding in a truck. One might imagine they pointed and laughed at the impenetrable ruse.

Or maybe the pause was just them arming their missiles to blow it to Kingdom Come, check for survivors, and then leave with the satisfaction of a job well done.

It's hard to tell.

A few minutes later, one of the floating bodies suddenly opened its eyes.

-/-

"Glad that worked," Eamon said.

Agent Hand turned. "It cost us the bodies of the other terrorists, the truck, and several very expensive jetpacks to set that up. Possibly the dam and the weapons too." Beat. "I certainly hope it was worth it."

Eamon decided that he didn't like the agent. Maybe it was the impeccable suit. Maybe it was the trendy hair, down to the red streaks. Maybe it was the glasses.

It probably wasn't the glasses.

"They just sent a HYDRA team, an alien ground team, and a gunship after that one woman," he retorted, pointing at the woman in red who was now being helped out of the water. Nearby, Vanko's suit winched itself up; it had used a cargo truck as a counterweight, wrapping its whips around the body and then deactivating them.

"Hm," Hand said. "Well, they'll be here shortly, and we can simply ask her what makes her so valuable."

"Don't you want to ask her name first?"

Hand froze, bit back something, and turned back to the display.

-/-

"Well," Leighton said, rolling onto her back. "That was more fun than a barrel of monkeys in a mud-slingin' contest."

There was a pause, as everyone digested this image. The stranger rubbed her freed wrists, and Vanko's drone suit unceremoniously deposited their one remaining prisoner on the ground. He had blacked out again.

"Who _are_ you people?"

"We're from the government, and we're here to help you," Sitznski said. "What's your name?"

"Wanda," said the woman in red. "Wanda Maxime."

-/-

In the New Mexico desert, Jasper Sitwell turned away from a crater where a spontaneous party had erupted. Oddly enough, it was centered on a large, square hammer that bore a strong resemblance to the Platonic ideal of the Immovable Object. Some white-haired guy in sunglasses with a moustache had just hooked his pickup to it.

"Sir?" he said, over the sound of a truckbed being ripped off. "The 084 is here, just like she claimed."

**-H-**

**Iron Man: Armored Adventures theme - Rooney**

The SHIELD shrink is played by Gabrielle Anwar. YES I AM A BURN NOTICE FAN HOW COULD YOU TELL

Hill has apparently read _Watchmen_.

Like in Thor, the guy in the pickup truck is Stan Lee.

Someone on FFn pointed out that Tony is an idiot for not using Elerium. I decided to write that into this chapter. SHIELD, however, sees the situation differently.


	18. 16 Is anybody out there

**16 Is anybody out there gonna take your hand?**

**-S-**

"When I was n-nine," Maxime said, "there was this mass testing project. Mass blood testing. We were told there had been an outbreak of...something." She ran a hand through her dreadlocks. "I don't...I don't remember the details."

"That's okay," Agent Daisy Johnson said. "It was a long time ago. No one expects you to do any better."

The Frenchwoman gave her a wan smile and went on. "Then, a few months ago, s-s-ome people came to me after I came home from a protest. They were waiting. They had a s-s-yringe. When I woke up," her eyes went unfocused. "They were _doing_ things to m-me -"

Daisy reached across the table and squeezed the girl's hand. "It's okay. You're safe here."

Maxime nodded.

"Know what?" The agent got up, found a bottle. She tipped some of the contents into the kid's glass of hot cocoa. "Doctor's orders. Drink up."

"_Merci_."

SHIELD had installed Maxime and her security team in a safehouse with a nice view. Someone had decided that what their little...witness needed most was the knowledge that she was free. (As well as some time out of the limelight while France yelled at them.) They even gave her a bike and some spending money, to go down to the village if she felt like it. Johnson had caught her just staring out the window on more than one occasion.

"There were four of us, that I knew about. I saw the file, once. They called us the Cuckoos."

Her hands curled around the mug.

"I'm, I'm not sure what I can do-"

"We'd like to find out."

She watched the Frenchwoman curl up like an armadillo who doesn't want to get out of bed, and her eyes flickered around, looking for escape routes.

"It's voluntary, of course." She poured some of the brandy into her coffee. "You can just stay here. Or leave. We'll even give you a ride back to your parents."

"I-I-I don't want to..." She faltered, staring at Daisy.

_Must not have my face neutral enough_.

Maxime swallowed, and whispered. "I _can't_."

Daisy nodded, something starting to ache in her belly. "I don't want to pressure you. But-"

She was going to have to say it, wasn't she?

"Do you want to leave the other Cuckoos behind?"

Wanda flinched. "N-no."

Johnson raised an eyebrow, and waited.

_If I wanted a cleaner conscience, I would've got another job._

She took a sip of her coffee.

_Like being a lawyer._

"Okay, but-"

"But what?"

"But only if you teach me how to fight."

Daisy blinked.

Good idea.

"Okay."

-/-

It wasn't just the muscles, or the good looks, or the flowing blonde hair, Eamon decided. Thor had _charisma_.

He had looked up the God of Thunder ahead of time, and learned that he was also a God of Fertility. Which might explain why Irene's body felt like someone had installed some kind of Thor-magnet deep in her guts - there was some kind "attractive" pun there - but Eamon wanted to hang out with him too.

In fratboy-speak, he just seemed like a bro.

Sitwell had grumbled about putting personnel at risk, but he had stuck to the script. Thor, reduced to a mortal, landed in New Mexico, made friends with an cute astrophysicist, her rather buxom intern, and her Swedish father figure, then snuck into the SHIELD installation to try and retrieve Mjolnir. Upon failing, he grew despondent, was captured by SHIELD, interrogated fruitlessly, and then talked to an empty room. He was released, his pals came looking for him, and the town was attacked by the Asgardian equivalent of the Terminator, except with face lasers. Upon sacrificing himself to save everyone in town, his weapon flew to his hand and his powers were restored.

What happened then could best be described as "Hammertime".

And now, as he strode through the remains of the Destroyer - such a nice, _friendly_ name - to meet his friends, Irene picked up a case and tagged along behind Sitwell.

She was last on the list, after the banter with Dr. Porter, and informing Sitwell that he knew he was just doing his job (and clapping a hand on the agent's shoulder that nearly sent him to the ground). Then the prince-god turned to her and...hesitated. "I don't think we've met."

"Loki's gone mad. The Bifrost may have to be destroyed to keep it from destroying Jotunheim. Or you try and can figure out an alternative, but only if you don't have to waste time trying to take down Loki. In fact, you may be able to stop him ahead of time."

The Asgardian's mouth was hanging open, exposing his perfect teeth. "Are you some manner of sooth-"

He felt...keyed up. Manic. "Mr. Thor, let me introduce you to our line of stunning products."

Why couldn't he stop grinning?

"First we have the dendrotoxin gun, informally known as the ICER. Next, we have a choice between the XCOM Sonic Stunner, and the Vanko Arc Thrower, patents pending."

He snapped the case shut.

"But wait, there's more! We've turned it up to eleven, so they _may_ be able to disable your brother!"

"Ah," said the prince-god, who knew a sales pitch when he heard one. "In return for what?"

Irene grinned even wider.

-/-

The rest was silence.

Plus some teleporting gods.

Eamon stared at the mark on the ground the Bifrost had left. He had extracted a promise from Thor to open negotiations, a possible trade or military agreement. If this worked, _if this worked_, he might've prevented the deaths of thousands of people in New York. The Avengers would never form, would never need to. Of course, there was no reason Loki's benefactor couldn't just find another Cat's Paw, and invade anyway. And if he did, even more people might die, because he had introduced too many variables to predict. In fact, he _was_ a vari-

"Hey," someone said, at his elbow, and he left off worrying his lip. It was Porter's intern, Darcy.

"I, ah...saw you making eyes at my girl's man," she said. "We gonna have a problem?"

Eamon stared. The pale-skinned brunette offered about as much threat to him as a mosquito, but he didn't feel much like laughing.

"No. No problem."

"Good. Because I'm pretty sure you could take me."

He stared, then snorted, then outright belly-laughed, his tension vanishing like a pricked soap bubble. The younger woman watched him with a smile on her face.

"Want a drink?"

"Sure." Eamon dragged a hand down Irene's face. "I think I could use one."

As they trudged toward the car, Darcy said "Aaand you're going to need a lot more."

Irene looked askance.

"Your big fancy base. The one you had set up around Thor's hammer. You're going to have to move it to the transporter pad here. Which means-"

"Paperwork," Eamon groaned. "_Please_ tell me your bar serves Jack."

-/-

Tony?" said Schmidt.

"Director?" Tony looked up from his desk. "Come on in. I was just going over Vanko's designs -"

"Actually, that's what I wanted to talk to you about."

"Vanko?"

"The designs." She slumped into one of the chairs in front of Tony's desk. "They're too complicated."

The engineer blinked. "Maybe I'm mistaken, but I'm pretty sure that's what you pay me the big bucks for."

"No, wait, let me explain." She yawned. "The pulse weapons are a big hit, by the way. Nice to have an option between regular ballistics and frickin' laser beams. Especially since you can still put suppressors on them."

"Thanks, but can we get back to the 'complicated'?"

"Here's the thing, Stark, XCOM isn't just about fighting aliens, or researching their tech. We're supposed to be providing the seeds of an insurgency, in the ev -"

"I read the LOOKING GLASS brief. Kinda dry. Not exactly going to knock _50 Shades_ off the bestseller lists."

Schmidt paused to hold back a snicker, then continued. "Our current weapons technology isn't...very good for that sort of thing."

Stark bristled.

"I'm not saying it's not good for our current needs. That is, when our forces can come back to our base every mission and hand them over for maintenance. But if we lost -"

Tony leaned back in his chair. "Then any caches we have are going to break in about five minutes." He winced. "In my defense, I blame Irene."

"It's just tunnel vision, Chief." Schmidt shrugged. "I didn't notice it either. In fact, it wasn't until I saw how the HYDRA cell worked-"

"What?"

"The attack on the military convoy in France. A cell was activated, and they were armed with low-maintenance laser weapons, plus a few more goodies. No body armor, no overwatch, and they _still_ managed to take down a dozen highly-trained soldiers. Interrogation suggests they hadn't even _met_ before then."

"So you want me to make a laser AK-47?"

"Basically, yes. Start small. Add-ons for common conventional weapons." She drew her Colt from her back holster, and put it on the desk.

"Unloaded, of course," she said, setting the magazine down next to the gun Tony was now staring at like it was a rattlesnake before it had its morning coffee. "I've heard some interesting things about noise-cancelling. See if you can do anything about that. And Stark?"

"Yeah?"

She got up. "It's a puzzle, not a problem."

"Got it. And, uh, Boss -"

The Director paused in the doorway.

"I...We have enough of the alien alloy now for me to take a shot at a side project." Tony tapped his stylus on the desk absently. "We want to try and make Captain America's shield."

"Stark-" Schmidt said, and stopped, because she didn't actually have anything more to say.

Tony winced. "I know, I know," he said quickly. "It's not going to be the same as the original. But it could be useful in combat. If we customize the software -"

"Stark-" said Schmidt again, and then "okay."

"-The same as the Super-Soldier - wait, what?"

She smiled. "Okay, I said."

"Oh. Okay. Wow. I'd...I'd better get on that. And Director?"

"Hm?"

"Did they ever find the original? Or, y'know, Cap?"

Schmidt looked thoughtful. "No, I don't think they ever did."

-/-

Eamon was passing a doorway in the new SHIELD base when she heard Sitwell say "I don't trust Starkos."

Well. That was interesting.

He leaned against the wall outside, and continued to listen.

"She's a wild card. Comes out of nowhere, and she's an intelligence asset?" You could almost hear the dubious head shake. "I don't think she's good for operational security."

Pause for reply.

"I understand that, sir, I just..." Beat. "I'll keep an eye on her, yes. But I don't like how she's throwing off the math. Aliens were bad enough, but...Gods?" He ran a hand over his shaven head. "I didn't sign up for this."

"None of us did," Irene said.

Sitwell jumped as she entered the room. "Ir-Liason Starkos! I was just -"

"Sharing concerns with your superior." Eamon relieved the cringing Agent of his phone, tapped the SPEAKER button, and handed it back. "I held back, and my friend died. I tried to make amends, and broke my cover in the process. And since XCOM doesn't take kindly to folks trying to execute their prisoners, they shipped me here for SHIELD to keep an eye on me. Got it?"

"G-got it."

"Good. Glad we could clear that up."

-/-

The psionic testing chamber consisted of a circle of a half-dozen modified sensory deprivation tanks, with a big window overlooking the whole operation.

"Isn't there any other way to test for this stuff?" Tony asked. Down below, Vahlen was being helped into one of the tanks. She looked...vulnerable. And small.

"This _is_ the other test," Marceau snapped. "We've already identified what might be the 'X-Gene' in several of our personnel. But...Xavier had such a small sample that there might be other variants we're missing. Or maybe it's not about genetics at all, but something else that we can't even begin to measure. Unless France are going to share how they found that witch of theirs-"

The normally-affable Belgian glared into the chamber like it had done him a personal insult.

"But we _do_ know that Vahlen seems to have it, and we know she has psychic powers. Some mind-reading, pyrokinesis, who knows what else?"

Down below, the Doc looked at her number two, and gave him a brave little smile and a thumbs up. He flinched.

"Worried about her?"

"Of course! We're about to lock her in a box and them bombard her with radiation waves we can barely tell exist. Absolutely _nothing_ could _possibly_ go wrong!" He pinched the bridge of his nose, and mumbled something.

"What was that? Sounded like 'can't live without her'."

Marceau looked up at him, and Tony could almost hear the gears turning. "I said 'we can't do this without her'."

"What's the difference?"

The Belgian stared some more, and squared his shoulders, like he had come to a decision. He looked around to make sure no one was in earshot, and said "Tony, have you ever -"

_Uh-oh, incoming Feelings._

"Yeah, I was in one of those once." He jerked a thumb at the test chamber. "Fun. 'Course," he smiled at the fond memory, "mine could hold two people."

-/-

The Venezuelan situation was getting worse. The riots were growing more frequent, only fueled by what the protesters felt was a...heavy-handed use of force.

After two days of riots, the government's patience was growing thin, along their ability to literally and figuratively put out fires. The President authorized the use of emergency measures, and XCOM's riot-denial systems rolled out in Maracaibo.

They weren't all that dissimilar to other sonic weapons, really. The main difference was that they could be mounted on and powered from much smaller vehicles. Nonetheless, there was one sitting on the comms van when Zavala poked his head in.

"Hey, Medina?" he said. "I hear they got coffee at the bakery."

The technician in the van looked up. "Can you get me some?"

"Sorry, gotta stay near the front lines."

Medina swore, and ran a hand over his face. "All right, I'll go myself. Can you keep an eye on the van?"

"Sure."

When the technician came back, the cop was sitting in his chair.

"Did you touch anything?"

A snort. "Do I _look_ like someone who knows what any of this stuff does?"

"Actually, where are you from?"

"They shipped us in. Name's Zavala" The cop frowned. "Though it looks like one spot's as bad as another."

"I hear ya."

"Anyway, back to work. I hope these...folks don't start something today."

"Me too."

Medina soon forgot about the incident with Zavala. Which meant that when the police turned the sonic system on the protestors several hours later, he completely failed to notice that several of the settings had been changed, a knob moved here or there. As it happened, Zavala - who no one had ever seen before or would see again - did know what "that stuff" did. Better than most of the people operating it, who were going off of XCOM's simplified manual.

So when a protester - who no one ever saw before or would ever see - again kicked off the riot later, the sonic projectors did not cause discomfort.

Well, not _just_ discomfort.

-/-

After the first rock got thrown, Claudia had started to edge out of the crowd. This wasn't her first protest, and it wasn't the first one to turn ugly. She kept one eye on the _pacos_, and noticed the dish on their communications van turning toward the angry crowd as more rocks flew; what, was their communication van going to radio them into submission?

As it happened, the answer was "not exactly"

The first sign was a faint twinge across the bridge of her nose, spreading quickly into a throb that she could feel in her bones. The nausea came next, then the dizziness, then the screams.

She saw someone, their eyes barely visble above their bandana, start to weep blood. It was coming from their ears too, and she touched the sides of her head by way of experiment. They came away red, and she winced. The sounds of the panicking crowd sounded...off. Did...did she have hearing damage?

_This is the part where people get trampled_.

Somehow, she found herself at the side of the street, in a recessed doorway. It gave her some cover from the sonic weapon the police had turned on them, but she still got to watch people fall to the ground, foam pouring from their lips. She saw blood pouring from noses, ears, eyes. She saw someone's eye pop like a balloon-

She closed her eyes.

She didn't want to see any more.

_Mother of God_.

-/-

"_God Almighty_," Schmidt whispered, her face white, as she stared at the screen in her office.

It was, perhaps, more terrifying for the protestors than bullets might've been.

Tony's jaw set. "Jo, what's the damage?"

"Vision impairment, internal bleeding, brain damage, auditory damage, seizures." Beat. "Two deaths."

Bradford looked away from the screen. "Is this..._our_ fault?"

"I've checked the settings. They had them set well outside the limits we gave them in the manual. Venezuala claims they had calibrated them properly earlier. Either they're wrong, lying, or someone changed it later."

"Any evidence of sabotage?"

"I'm not sure that it matters." Schmidt cleared her throat, and glanced at the intel from SHIELD. "What does matter is that panic has increased in the country. Riots have escalated, there's angry mobs outside the President's mansion, lots of police have just...walked off the job. There's even surprisingly accurate rumors about where those weapons came from."

"Great, that's just what we need. What about us? How's everyone taking it?"

"There's a lot of guilt. Confusion. Some feel responsible."

"We need to get someone to check them out," Tony declared. "Isn't Pena in the area?"

Schmidt, uncharacteristically, grinned. "He certainly is."

-/-

The President of Venezuala had been putting in some long hours lately. No one was sure if that was because he was trying to shore up the disintegrating situation, or because he didn't want to show his face in public.

Even he wasn't sure.

He had been staring vacantly at the paperwork for who knew how long, wondering whether his country counted as a widening gyre or a narrowing one, alternating between swigs of scotch and antacid, when his aide poked his head in and informed him that the representative from XCOM was there.

When he was shown in, the man walked in a strange fashion - ah, yes, his prosthetic. He slumped into the chair, and declared, in an Argentinian accent, "We have a problem".

"We certainly do." He indicated the half-empty glass on the desk. "Drink?"

"No, thanks. Perhaps I wasn't clear. We -"

He pointed rapidly back and forth between the two of them.

"- Have a problem. You and XCOM."

It was strange. He could swear the ground was shifting under his feet. "Eh?"

"Your people screwed up, and people died."

"That was an accident!" the older man protested. "Perhaps if we had been given more training."

"Perhaps. But as I see it now, you have two options. Let us retrain your men-"

Funny. His ulcer seemed to be acting up. "We can't spare any personnel for, for, retraining!"

"_Let us retrain your men_, or lose XCOM support."

"I..." The President ran his hand through his rapidly-greying hair. "I do not think that is very funny, Director Pena!"

"That is because I am not joking." The soldier sat up. "I am authorized to withdraw all training, supplies, even defense. XCOM reserved that right when it was created." A thin smile - he was _enjoying_ this. "Perhaps you should've read the fine print."

The older man stared. Then he reached out, plucked the glass off the desk, and drained it. "Do you know what that would do to my people?"

Pena snorted with contempt. "We've seen what _you_ do to your people. Personally, I think you are concerned about the oil."

The President refilled the glass. "Tell me, sir, are you 'concerned' with the blood pumping through your body?"

Pena's eyes narrowed.

"And would you have us live on coffee exports alone? Hm? We _must_ restore order, or the country will topple into economic ruin-"

"And if you can keep it propped up, what's a few bodies in the foundations, eh?"

The politician's grip tightened on the glass. "_Get out of my office_," he ground out.

"With pleasure, sir." He stood up, straightened his tie. "We will have your answer in a week."

The statesman waited for the soldier to slam the door shut before he buried his face in his hands.

His ulcer was _definitely_ acting up.

-/-

"Greetings, Director," said the Councilman.

Schmidt had long ago realized that she had no idea where her boss actually was, so she had settled on a nod, and a polite "Councilman." She had also settled on parade rest; relaxed, but still alert.

"We've received..._criticisms_, Director," said the shadowy man, and waited. Unfortunately for him, she was highly familiar with that trick. Imply something, give them enough rope to hang themselves. They might even reveal more information than you knew about.

She went with "Sir?" and a slight cock of her head.

"Certain members of the Council feel your actions may have been...heavy-handed. Perhaps even insulting."

"You'll have to specify, sir."

A sigh. "Did you threaten to withdraw XCOM support of Venezuala?"

"I informed the President that his support by XCOM could not be selective, yes."

"We feel you're overstepping your remit, Director."

"Sir, we've both seen the reports. The police arent exactly treating their citizens with kid gloves."

"You need to stay focused on the bigger picture, C-"

"If there's anything I've learned in my life, it's that the big picture is made up of smaller pictures." A deep breath. "Would you like me to tender my resignation?"

A long pause.

"That won't be necessary." Did he sound taken aback? "We would simply like to make sure you remember that XCOM is a military organization." His tone went edged. "_Not_ a political one."

Schmidt's hands clenched behind her back. "Sir. I strongly doubt the President will call our bluff."

-/-

_The redheaded American smacked _El Presidente de la República Bolivariana de Venezuela_ lightly with a pillow. "I have an idea."_

_He rolled over and looked at her. "Please, I am still sore from your _last_ one!"_

_"Perhaps you are getting old. If you would like to stop this, for the sake of your old bones -"_

_He reached for her, and when they came up for air, she grinned and said "Not _that_ old, then."_

_"I certainly hope not." His eye, idly, rolled around the hotel room, the empty champagne bottle, the remains of the food service tray._

_"My idea isn't about-" she trailed her finger down her body "-us. It's about work."_

_"Eh?"_

_"I've heard how those X-Force people held you over a barrel. And I was thinking...what if you could relieve the pressure in certain areas? Free up some of your men so they could be trained properly?"_

_"With what?"_

_"My firm invests in several areas, including a private security contractor called Aegis."_

_"Ah." The politician laid back. "Mercenaries."_

_"Private security contractors," the American corrected, gently. "They can do things like, I don't know, guard politicians, do regular foot patrols."_

_"You want me to bring in a bunch of cowboys?" He snorted. "I doubt my people are going to like it."_

_"Say the oil companies made you do it. And besides-" she shrugged, "it's not like things can get much worse."_

_His ulcer twinged._

-/-

"Moving on. We are concerned that allowing Dr. Vahlen to remain at your primary base is an unacceptable security risk."

"I think it's quite acceptable. We already know she's friendly. And, frankly, we still need her in Research, despite what we say on paper. Marceau's effectiveness seems to drop without h -"

Schmidt's mouth hung open.

"Director?"

"Sorry. Sorry, I just...I just realized something." She tried not to grin. "I believe Interim Research Director Marceau has strong feelings for Moira. Whether friendship or romantic or both, I don't know. But it's just another argument in favor of keeping her here. I mean, we certainly can't afford to train someone else at this point."

"Speaking of such, we've heard unconfirmed reports that you and Commander Bradford are in a relationship."

The Executive Director of the Extraterrestrial Combat Unit, a top-secret agency backed by the world's major governments created to research and address the alien threat, commander of dozens of the world's deadliest men and women and experimental technology, blushed like a schoolgirl.

"Uh..."

-/-

The older Aboriginal gentleman who was talking to Barton had a large white beard, dark skin baked by the sun into leather, a football jersey, and a cell phone currently displaying a paused game of Angry Birds.

That could probably be taken as a metaphor for something.

"They saw the lights in the sky...three times last week," his translator interpreted. The old guy had tried English, until he ran out of vocabulary and lapsed back to his native tongue.

Which kinda summed up a lot of Clint's relationships.

"Thank him, pay him, and ask him about his high score."

The translator smiled, and edited the remark.

They walked out of the convenience store into the Outback, which, surprise, surprise, was still blinding and hot even in autumn.

"Think there's anything out there?" the translator asked, as they got into their car.

Agent Clint Barton, alias tabloid journalist Clint Norton, shrugged. "Not enough for my story. I'll have to call my editor." He tilted the seat back, ignored the belt, and tried to ignore the live-wire current tingling under his skin.

He'd have to get some backup out there to pinpoint, but he was pretty sure they'd found _an_ or _the_ alien base.

Pretty sure.

The car started.

**-H-**

**Joe Walsh & Lita Ford - "A Future To This Life"**

Readers may be wondering how HYDRA got Venezuala into such a state of civil unrest in the first place. Well, while researching this chapter I learned an interesting fact; _they wouldn't have to try very hard_; Google the May 2014 protests. All they needed to do was provide the final straw that would push the Prez into their arms, like a lamb to the slaughter.

Plus, y'know, sleeping with him.


	19. 17 Let it break the walls of Jericho

**17 Let it break the walls of Jericho, ready, go!**

**-S-**

It had been a relatively uneventful month, since Thor left.

As far as alien invasions went.

Eamon yawned as he looked into the mirror.

Someone - probably a certain black man with a beard - had decided that Irene was better used at the New Mexico base, especially since she could do her "official" job there just as well.

Toothbrush, toothpaste, brushie brushie brushie.

By her own admission, if Irene's knowledge was correct, she didn't have any more relevant knowledge about the invasion that Loki spearheaded, and she had given them everything she could recall about the Ethereals.

Rinse, spit.

They hadn't been able to stop Harlem, despite the inside track she had given them. SHIELD had told General Ross exactly what would happen if he dosed Blonsky with the serum, and he had decided capturing Banner was worth the risk. Heck, he probably hadn't believed in the risk in the first place.

Floss, floss.

Which, of course, led to who knew how much property damage, lots of people killed, Banner in the wind, and Ross in the military equivalent of the doghouse.

Eamon tried to imagine a tactical doghouse, and smirked at Irene's face in the mirror.

Huh. Since when had those lines been there?

-/-

Washington was waiting for "Fortunate Son" to kick in.

Sure, they weren't riding in a Huey, and they weren't heading to Vietnam, and no one there was named "Gump", but _otherwise_ the vibe felt pretty similar, down to the part where they were about to fight a dangerous enemy on their own turf.

There were a few other differences, of course, like the fact that he was wearing a high-tech power suit, was flying in an experimental super-jet with a drone strapped to the ceiling, and, oh yes, was staring at his team's SHIELD counterpart on a TV screen showing the inside of their Q-jet or whatever it was called.

Someone up the chain had decided that it was a good idea for XCOM and SHIELD's teams to actually meet before they embarked on a mission together.

It was kind of like looking into a mirror.

Currently, they were using it to ask about each other's nicknames.

"So," said Viking, to Viper team, "'_Crossbones_'..."

Rumlow shrugged. "My great, great, grand-something was a pirate."

"You mean privateer," Diamondback said, making sure her many knives were loose in their sheathes.

"Pirate sounds cooler. Why do they call you 'Scope'? You're not a sharpshooter."

"On my rookie mission, I turned out to be good at, uh, scoping out things. We call Nilsson 'Viking' because-"

"I am from Minnesota," said the Swede, completely deadpan. He raised a fist. "Go team."

Everyone laughed.

"Which means Diamondback is from Arizona, right?"

"Texas, actually." Leighton waggled a knife in each hand at the XCOM troopers. "They gave me the nickname because someone thought I move like a snake, and my fangs are sharp." She smiled like something you'd see on Animal Planet, probably in Night Vision, stalking its prey.

"Also," another member of Viper team cut in, "she poisons her knives."

"It's more of a paralytic, really," Leighton corrected. "Dendrotoxin."

Washington made sure his suit's grapple was firmly attached to his arm. The choice had been between it and a single-shot rocket, and he had chosen the one that let him run away better.

John "Beagle" Teasdale frowned. "Isn't that-"

Leighton nodded at the Australian's question. "Yep, same as the ICER." She patted the pistol on her left hip.

"Are you sure that'll even work on aliens?"

"No. But that's what all the regular guns are for."

"Suit," Washington murmured, "iris check."

He felt the vibration of the aperture on his chest opening smoothly, and looked down at the standby glow of the repulsor there.

"Hey," Rumlow asked. "what's with the nightlight?"

"Emergency weapon. Repulsor. Saved my life, once. It was supposed to be part of a flight system that never panned out."

On the ceiling, Pitbull huffed.

"No, girl, you still can't fly. You can fall with style, though."

"What I am interested in," said a Russian-sounding voice from offscreen right, about where Pitbull was, "is whether I am meant to be dog."

Rumlow snorted. "Put a sock in it, Vanko. You're not even really _here_."

"I am there in spirit," the engineer retorted. "Also, in control of large robot, which is much more tangible."

"Look, we've discussed this. You're heaviest, so you need to be someplace you can balance the jet."

"Are you saying I am fat?"

Washington tuned out the byplay to focus on another member of Viper. A nondescript white guy. Brown hair, brown eyes.

"What's your name?"

"Jack. Jack Rollins."

"What's your nickname? Black Flag?"

"Jack."

"No, I mean, what do they call you?"

"Jack," said Jack.

There was an awkward silence.

"Airstrike was good. Drop in five," announced the SHIELD pilot.

"That's our cue, boys and girls," Leighton said. "Game faces on."

Their game faces turned out to be black masks with tiny rectangular eyeslits and vents over the mouth.

They looked familiar.

They finished attaching the hoses to their air tanks, and shrugged on their swoop harnesses, which were basically memory-fabric hang-gliders. Someone had told Chief Stark "I want one!" and he had told them that the rigs were so heavy, any swoop harness would be so big it would compromise the stealth it was built for in the first place.

Personally, Washington figured he was jealous that someone figured out something that he hadn't.

_It ain't me, it ain't me..._

-/-

Eamon had taken to eating breakfast sitting across from a clerk from Records, a Chinese-American woman named Mei or May or something.

"Mmm," Eamon said, as he sat.

May looked up from her fruit salad, and nodded. "Mmm."

They had a _very_ close friendship. Sometimes they had sleepovers and braided one another's hair.

Aside from being BFFs with a taciturn Asian, Eamon hadn't really bonded with anyone in SHIELD. Something about being a known spy. Maybe she needed a blonde to flirt with. What was Morse doi-

Her phone rang. May looked up, raised an eyebrow.

"Sorry," Eamon mouthed at her. "Hello?"

"Incoming."

"Good morning to you too, Sitwell."

He got to the marker room - fondly known as the transporter pad - just in time for the dust to clear. In front of a wedge of spear-and-shield toting armored men stood a blonde woman with curled hair over one shoulder. Her clothes were white and gold, and vaguely martial, and she had a crooked smile on her face.

"I am Kelda, Emissary of Asgard," she declared, "and I am burdened with glorious purpose."

Eamon twitched.

"I am...Jasper Sitwell of SHIELD. We have a delegation waiting to speak with you, but they'll take about an hour to set up -"

"That's quite all right. Thor spoke highly to me of 'coffee'."

The smile became a grin.

"Have you had breakfast yet?"

-/-

"So," Leighton said, "let's review."

The alien base, from what the two squads could see of it, consisted largely of a giant cave filled with mist. The "ground" consisted of strangely organic metallic platforms, with bumps and ridges and stairways and an alarming lack of OSHA compliance.

"We can't get drone oversight down here, on account of the fact that they can't look through that teeny-tiny little hole." She glanced at the hole they had made. "Our signal relay can only get enough bandwidth to remote-pilot Vanko's suit and get telemetry, but not enough to take over any of the XCOM rigs in an emergency. Also, the terrain is too unfamiliar for Pingers to pick out the Echo Tangos from, and most of it is made of stuff our viewers can't even see through. Am I missin' anything?"

"Almost right," SHIELD Base responded. "You forgot the part where your life depends on Cobra and Saber _kickin' up enough of a ruckus_ to draw off most of the Echo Tango forces."

"You mockin' my accent, Base?"

"I wasn't aware anyone needed to."

Leighton rolled her eyes under her helmet.

"How come they get the easy job?" Viking broke in.

"Are you talking about the hole?" Base said.

"Yeah," said the Swede.

"Wait," Leighton said. "You think keeping every alien in this base from swarmin' all over them like fries on a cowpatty is easier than sneaking to their command center, just because they have _more bars_?"

"Like I said. Easy."

She was pretty sure he was smiling under his helmet.

When they moved out, Levin, Arnadottir, and Rumlow all held back, trying to keep at least one of them on high ground at any time. Not that there was much ground that was any "higher" than the rest.

"Heads on a swivel, people!" Leighton ordered.

"Try not to touch anything," her counterpart added. "I don't think we can afford anything in here."

"What are those down there?" Rumlow mused.

Rollins peered over the edge of the platform, at the massive tubes with something...pink in them.

"Well," he said, "they're pretty disgusting."

And further in, deep within the base, something massive stirred.

-/-

Puente Antiguo didn't look so bad. You could barely tell that it had been torn apart by an alien WMD hunting a demigod at the behest of his mad brother.

SHIELD standard-issue MIBs had secured Isabel's Diner (Under New Management), down to pulling all the shades. An agent would take the orders and relay them to the cook, who was not to leave the kitchen on pain of a one-way, Do Not Pass Go trip to jail. And then, just for the heck of it, they shooed out the customers.

Eamon had asked Sitwell why they were taking her to town. The shaven-headed agent had responded that she had requested it, they wanted her to see more of Earth, "and besides, would _you_ serve her our coffee?"

Still, it wasn't like the people of the town couldn't figure out what a big black SUV meant, which is why she was smuggled into the restaurant through the back door, in one of the less conspicuous battered Jeep Cherokees SHIELD kept for just such a purpose.

"I was expecting more...local colour," Kelda declared.

"Sorry," Sitwell said Brusquely. "Security concerns. The last alien these people saw blew up half the town, and the news probably hasn't been letting them sleep any better at night.

"To business, then."

And then they began to talk shop. And order breakfast.

Eamon listened with half an ear. Kelda's guards were arranged around the walls and entrances, near from their SHIELD counterparts, and were clearly trying to out-stoic each other. Naturally, neither group seemed uneasy at having a bunch of armed people in the room with their charge.

He rose, crossed to the nearest pair.

"You guys want some coffee?"

The agent nodded. "Cream, one sugar."

The guard looked like he was barely out of his teens, which could mean he was hundreds of years old. "I...am not allowed to drink on duty."

"Really? Because I heard you Asgardians were great drinkers."

He relaxed a little. "I meant me, personally. There was a bilgesnipe incident."

"It's not that kind of drink."

"Oh. Then yes."

"Good. By the way, how are you speaking English?"

The guard glanced at the Emissary. "Lady Kelda's magics."

"I see. Two coffees, coming up."

By the time he got back to the table, Sitwell and Kelda were discussing trade in luxury goods, and experiments with magic. Kelda pulled a small globe from thin air.

"What's that?" Eamon asked.

"This is a scrying orb. Or, as your people would call it, a crystal ball. It allows communication between any two linked orbs in the universe, regardless of distance. It can even transmit magic, under certain circumstances."

The Hispanic man blinked. "So you're saying you just gave us a red phone to Asgard?"

"Possibly. Depending on what a 'red phone' is."

"Emissary-" Eamon broke in.

"Please, call me Kelda."

"Kelda, does that work by sympathetic magic between extremely small particles?"

"Why...yes! How did you know?"

"Because we call it a quantum entanglement communicator. Well, if we had any."

Sitwell's phone rang. He glanced at it, grimaced. "I've gotta take this." Rising, he headed towards the EMPLOYEES ONLY door. "Hello? No, I knew what they were planning, but they didn't give me a detailed itinerary-"

Leaving the two women alone. Except for the dozens of guards.

"You are the armslady," Kelda declared.

Eamon blinked. "I'm a what?"

"Thor's armslady. The woman who gave him the weapons he used to capture Loki?"

"Oh. Yes, that's me. But why do you call me "armslady"?"

"That is what your title would be in Asgard. What would it be called on Midgard?"

"Weapons developer. Well, it used to be."

A raised, perfect eyebrow.

"We had a...disagreement about my career goals."

"Ah." The goddess tilted her head sympathetically. "One of those."

-/-

That liquid noise from whatever was in the pipes was getting to Washington. It sounded kind of like someone trying to suck a hamburger through a straw.

Between the greenish glow from various objects, the complete lack of contact, and the sound of something liquid moving in the darkness, both squads were pretty wired. Most of the SHIELD forces acted as screening-slash-recon elements, while the more overt XCOM forces followed behind.

Though Leighton wouldn't've admitted it on pain of death, it was a relief when the call came.

"Say again, Base?" She turned to her team. "Cobra and Saber are reporting resistance in their area. Something about a...flying...disc-"

She hit her thermals, looked up into the air. There was a bright spot, up high-

"D-back?" Brock asked.

"Rumlow. Scope out that contact."

After a second or two, the sniper reported. "It's a silver Frisbee."

Well, crap. The intel was good. "Boys and girls, we need to disperse. That's an indirect fire unit, so we need to be less...sexy, let's say."

"Speak for yourself," someone said.

Everyone chuckled. Rumlow broke off. "Boss? I think we spooked it."

"It's spinnin', isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Change of plans; _run_!"

As the glowing green orbs scythed toward them, they did their best to obey that order.

To his credit, Rollins _almost_ made it.

-/-

The room was filled with what looked like an assembly line of those glass tubes, in various sizes. There were various alien-looking machines pointed at the tubes in some places, but luckily, there weren't any actual aliens present when Saber team arrived.

"Okay," said Lt. "Sanjay" Gupta, "Ikoku says we're clear. Everyone take five. Sergeant Murphy, take five by that door."

The American woman complied, popping her Herakles rig's mask for a drink of water.

"Anyone feeling sick? Need anything?" her boss continued. Hopefully, the good doctor wasn't going to ask anyone to strip down to their underwear. His nickname seemed to amuse him more than it should. No one was sure why.

Murphy resolved not to touch any items lest she get Jovian Flu or something. The news would just love having a new disease to freak out over.

"Our friends will be along shortly," Gupta finished. "Until then, relax."

"As long as it's not the red ones," Li griped, as he checked the battery on his Laser SAW. "Who puts knives on their fists anyway?"

"I dunno," said Gupta thoughtfully. "I met this Canadian once…"

Murphy immediately tuned him out. She sidearmed a whipmine a few dozen meters out, and boosted her passive sonic sensors, keying them in on the sound of the mine triggering.

"So what are these things?" Furrer asked.

"I don't know. They didn't leave the instruction manual," Parata answered. "Maybe they're holding a rave."

"This is an adjustable armature…" the Swiss woman murmured. "It seems to be focusing on their eyes...wait, wait, wait."

"Are they for giving them headaches?"

"I don't know. Maybe they're for recreation?"

"I have been meaning to catch up on the latest season of 'How to Get Away With Blorqthag'."

"Well, they have to be for something. Something vital to their-" She snapped her fingers. "_Learning_. They're probably for learning."

"Even assuming you're right; and?"

"Well, maybe we can repurpose it for humans. Get tactical knowledge beamed right into our brains."

"What about muscle memory?"

"You know it's not actually in your muscles, right?"

"Won't the knowledge be less effective without actual physical experience? Like seeing a video of something versus seeing it in person and using the video to help you remember."

The Swiss stared at him.

"What?" he said defensively. "I do more than just weightlighting and jokes." Beat. "And looking pretty."

"Well, uh, yes, but we don't know if the aliens work the same way as we do. They've been heavily engineered; maybe they're programmed for this. And it's not like they're going to run out anytime soon."

"Then we'll just have to find the off-switch," Parata declared.

"-_And what I do isn't pretty_, he says," Gupta finished, right as Murphy's HUD beeped at her.

"Soft contact," the American declared. "Something hit my whipmine. Big. Probably a Muton."

She didn't look down as Princess moved next to her, growling softly. She did pet the Rover, though.

"Ikoku," her boss said to his Cobra team counterpart. "How did you not _see_ that? Are you trying to get us killed?"

"_Not yet,_" said the man from SHIELD. "_Maybe later. We had a momentary drone malfunction. Looks like one of those red ones._"

"Thank you. Okay, folks, let's give him a warm welcome."

-/-

The electrified tungsten slug tore into the UFO, slicing off its exposed vanes and other unpleasantly organic protuberances. The electricity from the bullet jumped around its unarmored interior. It slowed, began to list, exposing its side to the larger group of SHIELD and XCOM operatives.

Which is when Rumlow's plasma rifle joined the party.

"Target down," Levin reported, as the twisted amalgamation of cybernetics, flesh and flame fell into the gloom surrounding the platform.

Washington barely noticed. He was too busy staring at what was left of Jack Rollins.

As it turned out, bombs that could core tanks, in sufficient volume, were pretty darn deadly to humans too, even if they were just caught on the edge of the blast.

Of course, Rollins wasn't actually dead, but he probably wished he was. He couldn't tell them, though, on account of his lips and vocal cords being not entirely functional.

Several of the SHIELD agents were gagging. Scope knew the only thing that separated him from them was the fact that his air system didn't have to take in air from the outside.

He said something, wasn't sure what.

His boss glanced at him before he jammed the sedative into Rollins' neck, in the third-degree burn between two fourth-degree burns. After a few seconds, Rollins' wordless, animal moans (just like Princess made when she got hit by that car_)_ died out, and his body relaxed.

Washington said something again.

Nilsson uncoupled the medical spray from his belt, and shook it with an unconscious movement, his eyes - or optical receptors - on Jack Rollins.

"I thought you said you weren't a medic, Eltee," Washington remarked. The blood had finally stopped pounding in his ears.

"I say lots of things." Beat. "He is going to lose _something_. I am not sure how much I can do for him."

"Then _find out_," Leighton snarled. She stood. "Any other little surprises?"

No more contacts, everyone reported.

"Good. Sweden, can you stabilize him?"

"Give me a minute."

"Once you're done, we need to move."

"I agree," Viking said.

"Wait, what?" Washington said. "What about Jack?"

"Best we can do for him is to leave him behind." She glanced at the looming shape of Vanko's drone, then dismissed the idea of stuffing a comatose man with third-degree burns into a big metal container where he'd be bounced around. "Can your dog keep an eye on him?"

Pitbull barked.

"That limits our options with the Arc Shield," Viking said to his counterpart.

"We'll improvise." She paused. "Nilsson, I've always wondered. How do you fit your hair into that helmet?"

Laughter from the peanut gallery.

"Let's roll."

And they rolled.

Washington paused. The explosions had shattered one of the tanks scattered around the room, and an alien fetus had slid out in whatever that gunk they had them in was.

It looked almost human.

It was still twitching. Just like Princess.

"_Scope_!" someone called.

"Coming."

And he was.

Firing the grapple into its head took no time at all.

-/-

It might've seemed hypocritical, but Stane didn't like Killian's fashion sense.

They were two men out of time, really, but while Stane dressed like the 80s cutthroat businessman, the other magnate looked like his personal fashion clock had stopped circa 1999. Also, Stane quietly walked into the joint and sat down for brunch, and Killian waltzed in like with a trio of bodyguards, wearing shades, a baseball cap and - was that a denim jacket?

One of the guards was a little smaller than the massive slab of muscle that made up the other two. He wore a red and black workout shirt under his coat, no shades, what looked like one of those architect-plan-tubes over one shoulder, and as his eyes scanned the restaurant, Stane had the sneaking suspicion that the bodyguard was checking him out.

It wasn't helped by the fact that he winked.

Killian didn't bother to shake hands as he sat.

"Well, you know who I am, and I know who you are."

"But what I don't know is who _those_ are."

"Oh, them? Private security. Wilson's head of my little detail."

"You do realize that you just made yourself more conspicuous? This...this little getup isn't exactly subtle."

"Yeah, it's almost as if I wanted the press to get wind of it so they think we're going to merge and increase both our stock prices." He shrugged. "Whoops."

Okay, that _was_ pretty clever.

"To business." The blond flicked open the menu. "My company, in addition to its ostensible medical purposes, is researching something called Extremis. Short version is, it lets people heal from unimaginable injuries, once it's fused with their bodies."

"Sounds great. I assume you're not selling it because you can't get FDA approval?"

"Actually, we are. You know those medkits we sell? That's the...watered-down version. But our mutual - actually, hang on."

He pulled something with too many antennae from his pocket and pressed a button. Something washed over Stane's skin.

"Broad-frequency white noise jammer. Handy. As I was saying, our mutual benefactors have some innovative ideas about how our products can synergize."

"They do? What can I provide?"

"Iron. Actually, there are three of us. Have you heard of Cybertek?"

"Prosthetics? What do they have to do with-"

The penny dropped.

"Cybernetic augmentation."

"Exactly."

"So you're saying that with my tech, your...Extremis, and Cybertek's cybertech, we end up with...what?"

"Well, I'll just have to show you. Later."

Stane sat back, loosened his tie. "Tell me more about Extremis."

"Well, we only use ten percent of our brains -"

"You know that's not actually true, right?"

Killian grinned. "Yeah, but it makes for a better pitch."

"What's the next part?"

"Blah blah, untapped potential, blah blah more human than human, blah blah medical potential. Actually, we've done pretty well on that last one, selling those medkits with Lerna. Including to XCOM."

"Who?"

"Those guys in the robot suits who fight aliens. Their real name is XCOM, all caps."

"So why aren't you offering money to rich people to take away their wrinkles and cellulite?"

"The...formula is unstable."

"You mean it doesn't always work?"

"I mean," Killian said, "people taking the stuff have a nasty habit of exploding."

He glanced at the menu.

"I'm one of the lucky ones."

Stane managed not to leap out of his seat and run screaming for the door. He just clutched the seat under him until his knuckles were white.

Killian closed his menu.

"Omelette looks good."

-/-

"Huh," Pulsaski said. "Christmas came early."

The area up ahead was covered in white and red smoke. Since XCOM's standard smoke greandes were white, that meant both Saber and SHIELD's Viper team had tossed a few out. And recently. The weird green tubes, power cores and specimen jars alike, were shining from inside the cloud.

Washington thought it looked like Santa was throwing a rave.

Leighton cleared her throat. "This is Viper-Six to Cobra-Six. Please respond."

In the cloud, someone flashed a light in their general direction.

Agent Sitznski squinted at it. "Come...on...in...the...water's…"

-/-

For some reason, Viking had carried Washington along to his little leadership conference with Leighton, Ikoku, and Gupta.

"I can't help but notice that you didn't invite me to your little rock concert here," the Swede drawled. "You could've sent a text. I'm down for, like, _whatev_."

"We had a strong desire to not explode," Gupta explained.

Washington saw his boss' back straighten. "Explain."

The five of them were standing on the edges of the smoke, close to Hotel and Viper. Now that he was closer, Scope noticed the flashes from the smoke, heard the muted thumps of pulse weapons.

"Think of this as a concert hall," the Indian explained. "This is the only approach, from both our entrances, to what we think is the command center."

"You _think_?"

"They didn't exactly send us an invitation. We're at the back of the hall, near the entrances. The command center is backstage. And downstage center, closest to the audience, is what seems to be a mobile rocket unit."

"So blow it up. It's in range of our rockets, isn't it?"

"We've tried. Turns out it has these little round flying things that keep fixing it. We get too close, and it starts firing at us. They have a big windup, but we need to move fast and far once they do. A couple times, we've had to jump off the edge and use our grapples."

"There's no dead zone?"

Gupta snorted. "No, that's even worse. It actually has two cannons for that. At least the missiles give us time to run."

"Let me guess; you can't take out the drones."

"They're really hard to hit from any range. Even before those Infiltrators started to pin us."

"They're in the wings," Ikoku added. "Taking sniper shots at us every time we poked our heads out We set up our turrets to cover our flanks. I'd like to meet the man who gave them the idea for a plasma sniper rifle."

None of the other four people giggled.

"They knocked them over. We set it back up. Then they shot the traversal mechanism. We fixed it, and they're making most of that noise in there -" he waved at the flashes in the cloud, "- but we're not sure what they'll shoot next."

"Probably the shaft," Washington said, "they seem to like taunting us."

They all turned to look at him, and it seemed a lot like that one time Mrs. McGinley called him up to solve a math problem when she knew he hadn't been paying attention."

"That would explain why they got a mobility kill on your drone instead of a hard kill," the Nigerian said thoughtfully.

All three of the XCOM troops went "Princess" at the same time.

"_Ndo_! Princess, then!" Ikoku shook his head. "We also have a new unit. They look like someone cut a Muton in half and slapped a jetpack on them. Keep dropping into the middle of our formations, trying to disrupt them, force us out of cover, but they're not well-armed, and we can see them coming from a mile away."

"What I don't understand, "Gupta said, "is why they need them as shock troops when they already have the Mutons."

"Maybe they are last year's model," Nilsson suggested. "Have you tried firing on the rocket unit from cover? Angles the snipers can't reach?"

"We did. And then they started homing in on our position. We're pretty sure the drones are doing it."

"Why?"

"Because you need two points to triangulate," Washington said. "And you said 'drones', so I'm assuming there are more than one. They're already supporting one way, why not another?"

"Speaking of support," Gupta said, "Pinger's got just enough data for them to be reasonably accurate now. Base and Jocasta whipped up an update and it's already pushed to your rigs."

"_Tack_," Nilsson said. "Have you seen more of those flying discs?"

"I think we got them all."

"What about Mutons and Sectoids?"

"Mutons are terrifying - especially since some are putting knives on their fists and carrying plasma shotguns now - but they can be held off with traps. Assuming we're not moving long enough for them to reach us. Problem is, _we_ need to get to _them_. They have the advantage."

"The ushers are very aggressive here. You know what would come in handy right now?" Viking said thoughtfully. "That Arc Shield."

"Shut it, Oslo," Leighton growled.

"I think we got all their Sectoids too," Gupta continued.

"I lost one of my men when we tried to push up," Ikoku said. "We only have so much smoke grenades and traps, and we don't know what the range on those rockets is."

He swallowed.

"When they went after you with missiles, were you bunched up?"

"Yes," Ikoku said. "Why?"

"Because I think that Rocket Pod is looking for infantry clusters. Vehicles too, if we had any. So, yeah, I do have an idea. Just one. But it's a dumb one."

"Son," Leighton said. "That about _all_ we got."

-/-

On the list of ways Washington had expected to die, "blindly jumping into the dark from an underground alien base" was not one of them.

Still, he had a responsibility. It was his idea, after all.

Breathe in, count to four, breathe out, count to four, run-

Washington's grapple bit into the underside of the platform as he leapt off the edge.

A half-second later, it jerked itself out of the platform, and another shaved instant later, the ex-Marine hit one of the pink tubes _hard_.

Even though the suit, he got the wind knocked out of him. He started to slide off, his gauntlets couldn't get purchase -

"_Couplers!_"

The prongs erupted from the underside of his wrist, and he drove it into the surface of the tube. It skittered off, and he tried again. Same result. He needed a better angle -

The metal bit, and he stopped sliding. Washington stared at it for a second, just to be sure. Then he repeated the process with his left hand.

Then he slowly, carefully, climbed to the top of the pipe.

Then he said something about four letters long.

When his heart stopped trying to escape his chest, he reeled in his grapple, examined the tip. It hadn't engaged properly, since there was something pink in it.

Like flesh.

Almost as if some _complete idiot_ hadn't checked it after using it for a mercy kill.

"Next time," he said to himself, "I'll just curbstomp."

He looked around. The pipes converged on a large room under the rough location of the command center or bridge, or whatever it was. Could he...no, no, that was stupid. The plan was risky enough already, best not try to swim through who knows what into a room full of who knows who.

Good thing they had backup grapple heads.

He activated his Pinger.

Hm. If he Boosted at exactly the right moment...

-/-

It wasn't exactly clear whether the alien drones could actually feel surprise, but if they could, the one that saw Washington swing up over the side of the platform, land on it, and in one smooth motion draw his Mutt and hit it with a shotgun blast made of crimson light.

This was followed by a carefully aimed grapple, which pierced its casing and got a good hold. The drone, still recovering from the lasers, took a few milliseconds longer than usual to grasp the situation and determined the appropriate res#$fRght3322h;**ERRORERRORERRO**

-/-

Under his mask, Washington smiled as the little beach-ball shook from the electricity coursing through the grapple, and therefore, through it.

He planted his feet. An idea flashed through his head as he yanked back on the cord and reeled the drone in.

It was immature. It was completely unprofessional. And he couldn't resist it to save his life.

"_Get over here_!" he yelled.

-/-

The drone rebooted.

Self-diagnostic. Self-diagnostic results: found damage to its casing and one of its arms, as well as an inexplicable weight attached to it. Enemy not detected. Recommended: Seek repair.

The drone made its uneven way over to to its cohort and the Defender, and signaled its need for repair.

The second drone turned to face it, and the first drone transmitted the results of its self-diagnostic. An instant later, the second drone requested that it rotate, in order to provide a better view of the weight.

It was, the second drone determined, a cylinder with protrusions on one end. They seemed to attach the cylinder to the drone via magnetic force.

There was a radio signal.

The sticky grenade exploded.

-/-

"_Drones are down!_" Washington called over the radio.

"That's our song," Ikoku murmured, and triggered his grapple's reel. His team tossed a few flashbangs over the edge, waited about five seconds, then followed them over right after they detonated.

_Step one, mobility kill_.

The pelvis was a surer shot than the legs, and Ikoku's laser SMG peppered it with red lights. Incredibly, it stayed up. Right until one of his squad members kicked it in the chest. The remaining member of the squad was setting up his Marksman Rifle - plain ol' ballistic, unfortunately - pointed in the vague direction of the other alien Infiltrator-slash-marksman, just in case -

The Nigerian heard someone double-tap the alien _anụ_ as its companion jumped over a wall, fleeing the other half of his team. Well, slightly less than half. The rifle cracked, and the alien jerked back as the bullet took it in the chest, leaving red blood on the curved wall behind it.

It was strange. They apparently weren't...customized until later, leaving them pale, androgynous, hairless figures. Still, its face still looked surprised as it touched its chest, looked at the blood on its and, and slid, slowly to the ground.

Almost like it was a real person.

"_Target down,_" Cobra-Five reported.

"Targets down," Ikoku relayed.

-/-

And with that confirmation, Li opened up.

His first shot was with his Carl Gustav, and while it was still streaking towards the big guy, he was already tossing it away and reaching for the LSAW. It probably wouldn't do too much damage, but he was just a distraction.

Behind him, Vanko's mech opened up with its repulsors. Some of the other XCOM troops were advancing into missile range, and it was even odds whether the machine would take advantage of the clustered base of fire that was currently harassing it, or-

The rocket-pod thing opened up its chest, and deployed the rotary cannon from its undercarriage.

Perfect.

"_Target acquired_," Levin whispered.

"_Target acquired_," Arnadottir said.

"_Sync-shot in three...two...one…_"

It wasn't her Bullseye, but she had trained on the plasma sniper, knew the controls. Rumlow was a few inches taller than she was, and she'd had to adjust the stock, the scope. You squeeze the trigger, don't jerk. If you were doing it right, it was supposed to be a surprise. No wind to account for-

The two cannons exploded.

Arnadottir blinked, let out a breath she hadn't even realized she was holding.

"_I did it_," she breathed, in Icelandic.

Levin looked over at her. "Spots?"

"_I did it_!" she repeated, this time in English. She raised her head, to look through the Sharpshooter module. Handly little fiber-optic thing-

What was that big SHIELD lady _doing_?

-/-

"_Connie, you're off your mark_!" Leighton hissed through the radio.

For a large woman, SHIELD had trained Blanche Sitznski to move very, very quietly when she wanted to.

"_Son of a-okay, we'll breach without her. Connie, when I get ahold of you-_"

The heavy tuned out her boss.

It was kind of like sneaking up on a post office.

The walking missile pod wasn't close to that big, but it felt like it. Was anyone even driving it? Was there a tiny little Grey in there, pushing levers and pressing buttons?

The half of Viper that was shooting at the 'pod wasn't really doing much damage, but it couldn't use its mid-range weapons. If it figured that the risk of Danger Close was lower than the risk of the tin men wearing it down-

There was a grinding noise, and the flap-thingies on the top opened.

"_Hey, ugly!_" Connie yelled at the 'pod.

It paused, turned, its footfalls feeling like, well, like a rig just before something big went wrong. It had no eyes she could see, but she _still_ felt like a roach when the lights come on.

"_Blanche, if he doesn't kill you, _I'll do it myself!_ Breach in three._"

Well, they knew what to do with roaches in the Sitznski house. All she had to do was hope that the big guy's momma had taught him the same.

Apparently he had, because he stomped toward her, intent on using the only melee weapon it had as its disposal.

Connie wondered what size shoes it would wear.

What was much more important was the fact that it was closing the hatch on top.

The agent grinned.

And then she tossed grenades into the closing hatch from a distance of about ten yards.

The explosion, when it triggered the missiles, was impressive.

Gupta got to her first, got the debris off, rolled her over. Her mask's lenses were cracked, and when it was pulled off she was blinking hard at the light. She saw Gupta's lips moving, but she couldn't hear anything through the ringing.

"Wha'?" she mumbled.

The Indian doc reached down. Something touched her ear. When he bought his hand back, it was covered in blood. He said something again.

She made a guess.

"'Cause Jack owed me twenty bucks."

-/-

"Beagle" Teasdale cocked his Spitfire, and made sure what he called the "buckshot" tube was selected. He nodded at Leighton.

"Blanche," she ground out, "if he doesn't kill you, _I'll do it myself!_ Breach after three."

"Employee troubles?" someone murmured.

"Two."

Teasdale reached out, and his hand hovered over the control for the force-field door into the command center.

"One."

Rachel didn't even have to touch it, and she could still feel static electricity on her skin, making the hairs under her suit try to raise.

"_Breach!_"

The Aussie opened the door, one of those red-headed Echo Tangos was revealed, and Rumlow shot Teasdale in the face with his plasma rifle.

Of _course_.

-/-

Kirsten Arnadottir blinked.

"_What...?_"

-/-

If there had been an unbiased observer at the scene, one might've been forgiven for thinking that Leighton had actually been training to turn on a teammate at the drop of a hat.

She had been using a special type of grip, intended to allow operators in close quarters to change where they were shooting quickly. So when the ICER in her hands flipped around, she was already yelling "_flash and clear_!" As Pulaski's first rounds sailed past her, she was already planting shots in Rumlow's upper body, the tactical fabric no proof against her weapon. And then she was reaching back, to the control on her side of the door, closing it, containing the blast. She tapped it again to open it, and went in, her teeth set beneath her mask.

The red Sectoid that had put the whammy on Rumlow was still in there. Leighton pressed her pistol to its head. There was something vanishing behind it, out of the corner of her eye, but she didn't really care.

"Tin men say they got one o' you already," she whispered. "SHIELD doesn't. And when _we're_ done with you? Death's gonna feel like a sweet mercy."

It managed to focus on her-

And she pulled the trigger.

-/-

There was something cold around her legs and feet. Had she fallen asleep in the pool again?

There was a faint hiss, and she opened her eyes to see someone reaching for her. And she didn't have elbow room...was she in a bathtub?

The blurry person hauled her out with surprising strength, then put an arm around her neck. With his other arm, pointed something green-glowing at...some guys in masks? And black tactical gear? Where were they, anyway? What was with all the curves and...tubes...with people in them...

A sick feeling began to gather in her stomach. This _definitely_ wasn't the day after any party. In fact, now that her normal morning amnesia was wearing off, she wished she had stayed in bed. Even if the bed was some kind of green alien tube.

"-Back!" the man (who probably wasn't even really a man) who was holding her said. He sounded funny, like there was something wrong with his jaw.

One of the tactical folks walked forward a little, lowered her weapon, spread her hands. Behind her was some sort of...hole in the...ceiling?

"Put 'er down, Slim," she said. "We all want to get out of this alive."

Wait, what? He was going to kill her? That was impossible. She never hurt anyone - well, there was that thing with the coffee shop and the backhoe, but that wasn't even on her record - she was just a girl, he couldn't hurt her, he **wouldn't** -

Something clicked in her mind, and she was instantly covered in...**something**. Something that sparkled like diamonds, something that deflected the green fire that burst from the thin man's weapon like an umbrella resists rain.

The **insignificant worm** had just tried to kill her. It had been a reflex, she could **see** in his mind, but still.

A lance of **anger** struck her captor's forehead, and he let her go and staggered back. As she sank to the ground, coughing, something sharp-looking flashed from the female soldier's hand.

Right into the skinny guy's throat.

The double-tap afterwards - with a laser because _of course_ they had lasers - seemed rather unnecessary. Still, the blonde was gaining a new appreciation for professionalism and thoroughness.

After they made various military-sounding noises that amounted to "_he dead_", they turned to her, asked her how she was. She said she'd be fine, just had to clear the tube crap out of her lungs. Her skin didn't seem to be made of diamonds anymore, so that was nice.

Her coughs turned to laughs as a thought struck her.

"You know the sad thing?"

The woman in black shook her head.

Emma Frost grinned at her, and nodded at the dead alien.

"I've woken up to worse."

-/-

Jasper Sitwell stepped out of the manager's office to find Starkos leaning against the wall in the hall.

"What happened?" he said. "What's wrong?"

She just smiled in that infuriatingly smug way she had, and jerked her head in the direction of the Kitchen.

Jasper looked through the window in the door and stiffened. The Emissary was playing with a smartphone held by a fry cook, who seemed a little bit confused at how a beautiful woman had come waltzing into his greasy little life, wanting to...wanting to...

He pushed the door open.

Ah. _Angry Birds_.

The cook looked up. "Uh...did I do something wrong?"

Jasper plastered a smile on his face. "No, it was my mistake. They told you to stay in the kitchen. I didn't tell the Emissary to stay out of it."

"I'm sorry, Agent, did _I_ do something wrong? I wanted only to meet the chef." For some reason, he was pretty sure the innocent look she gave him was fake. Maybe it was the way her lip was twitching in the corner.

His fake smile began to hurt.

"An error in communication, I'm sure. Now, Mr...Cobb, was it? I need to get Kelda back to the base-"

"But I almost have three stars!"

Cobb turned his laughter into a cough, and Jasper gave him his best Coulson-style glare. The cook looked away, which made it _maybe_ the second time the Glare had actually worked.

"Well," said Kelda. "Perhaps the next time I am in town, William could show me around."

Cobb blinked. "Wait, what?"

"We'll see. Shall we?"

Kelda handed the phone back. "We shall. Good morrow, William Billsson."

"No, it's just, uh, Cobb."

The blonde Asgardian paused. "Really? But are you not a son of Bill, who is in turn Bill's son?"

"Yes, but names don't always work that way here. Maybe in Nordic countries-"

"You know of them?"

"I...read travel stuff."

That crooked smile again. "You _must_ show me sometime."

The door swung shut behind her.

"You were just teasing him with the name thing, weren't you?" Starkos said.

"Of course," Kelda replied. "I love a man who can cook."

-/-

Agent John Garrett was a man who did not really believe in downtime.

If you had nothing to do, in his considered opinion, you probably weren't looking hard enough. Which is why the sight of the SHIELD and XCOM recovery teams (and a few Vanko drones) going over the alien base like a hooker over a rolled John filled him with a nice, warm feeling in his chest. Right beneath his flask.

Still, he saw it as his duty to keep morale up. Especially when the aliens might swoop down and bomb the place to radioactive little bits any second.

"Let's _move_, people! I want to be out of here before the owners come home and find the mess we've made of the place! Would you be happy with finding out that a bunch of jumped-up monkeys raided your liquor cabinet? I know _I_ wouldn't!"

SHIELD's cargo Quinjets had entered the base through the hanger, once someone found the garage door opener, and were loading as fast as they could. The XCOM and SHIELD teams had left with whatever they could cram in.

_And to us, the gleaning_.

A clean-cut, square-jawed young man approached, and saluted. "Sir, I don't think that we have nearly enough airlift capacity to make the schedule."

"Well, Agent Ward, _find so_ -" Garrett paused, looking at the alien cargo ships. "Scratch that." He raised his voice again. "Does anyone here have an alien driver's license?"

"You always were a cowboy, Garrett," Base purred in his ear.

"Are you saying it's a bad idea?"

"I'm saying that you need to get me and Jo eyes on the console of one of those. And to pray the Echo Tangos don't have Lojack."

As it happened, the last ship out was being piloted by one of Vanko's drones, with a few XCOM personnel on board, when the hammer came down, and the alien base was obliterated in nuclear fire.

They, and their cargo, the mysterious alien device, didn't make it out.

Officially.

-/-

Paula Schmidt ran her thumb over the reader, and blinked as the laser flickered over her eye. An icon of a stylized face with a finger to its lips appeared on the screen in front of her, and she felt the faint tingle of the noise-cancelling field.

"Babylon," she whispered.

And the door opened.

Inside was Dr. Vahlen, along with a few hand-picked research scientists. Towering above them was the alien device, glowing softly. The blonde joined the redhead at the railing overlooking the room.

"Director."

"Doctor. How many miles to BABYLON?"

"What? Oh. I get it. Well, we've discovered that this device interfaces via psychic powers."

"How?"

"I walked up to it. Watch."

As the redhead drew closer to the railing, the device did, in fact, glow brighter. Even more so when she raised her hand, concentrated, and a tongue of flame appeared on her palm.

Some of the other scientists took a step back.

There was a look of concentration on her face, a half-smile on her lips. The light of the fire gleamed in her eyes.

Schmidt shivered.

"How are your headaches?"

"Hmm? Oh." She snuffed the fire with a clutch of her fist. "Better."

"I can feel it trying to, well, log me in, but I don't have the right software."

"More like your firmware is incompatible," Schmidt corrected, leaning on the railing. "Do your best. We need this tracking system."

Vahlen opened her mouth, then decided not to ask the first question that came to mind. So she asked the second.

"Director, if I may..._why_ did Fury say to keep it secret?"

Schmidt thought for a second. "Are you familiar with the Coventry theory, Doctor?

"No?"

"From World War Two. England broke Germany's cipher, named Enigma. According to a book from the 70s by one of the people involved in the project, Churchill had advance warning of the bombing of a city named Coventry, but chose not to reveal it in order to protect the fact that they had cracked Enigma."

"Ah." Vahlen swallowed. "The needs of the many?"

"Well, it would be, if it were true. Other people who worked on the project denied it, and the files have been declassified for twenty years now. In fact, as best as anyone can tell, it's physically impossible for it to have been true."

"So, we are concealing this...beacon, let us call it, in order to hide our capabilities?"

"Gold star. Which is also why someone who is, officially, a research subject is heading the project. Those scientists over there are, officially, studying you."

"Does the Council-"

"No. This is between friends. You, me, Bradford, Fury and some of his senior staff." She turned to leave. "And Irene."

"Miss Starkos? Why?"

Schmidt looked over her shoulder. "Who do you think told us about this thing in the first place?"

**-H-**

**Aesop Rock - "None Shall Pass"**.

Kelda is played by Anna Torv, still not using her actual Australian Accent.

Gupta is amused by his nickname because there's an Indian figure called "Sanjaya" in Mahabharata, who tells stories. Much like Gupta does. Plus, y'know, the intended reference to Sanjay Gupta.

Ironically, I picked "Gupta" as a name at random, and then I looked for a list of Indian storytellers, and randomly chose "Sanjay", then I put them both together and went "...oh."

Leighton's ICER is an example of Chekhov's Gun, but it wasn't intended to be. I wrote Rumlow getting whammied before I introduced it, then I remembered that it would be perfect to take him down.


	20. 18 My next mistake

**18 You look like my next mistake**

**-S-**

The Dragunov bucked against the assassin's shoulder, sending the 7.62 mm bullet spiralling through the snowy Russian twilight, through a balding man sitting in a hot tub, then the thigh of his much younger wife, then the side of the hot tub itself.

The sniper grimaced. Collateral.

Couldn't be helped.

He abandoned the rifle. His masters, in their infinite wisdom, wanted the FSB to find it. (Personally, he preferred something with a little more stopping power.) It wasn't anything special, really, just a Soviet rifle you could find from any self-respecting black market arms dealer.

Suggestive, but not proof of anything, especially since it's use, especially in such a skilled manner, pointed to a man that every major intelligence service in the world staunchly refused to admit even existed.

He wasn't worried about being seen as he stood. Not in his winter camo. And besides, the Secretary for Special Project's men wouldn't even have their pants on before he was gone. There was a surge of mild irritation from the unprofessionalism of the house being situated with the back deck in sight from the woods.

Then again, the designer had _probably_ been more worried about the view than assassins.

He reversed his coat as he trotted down to the car that he had rented with what would turn out to be a fake ID, after he left it abandoned near the train station.

It was funny, he thought, as he got in. This was one of the few times they actually _wanted_ him to leave a trail.

He looked out the windshield for a few seconds, staring at the icy landscape.

What had his trainer said, once? "_Ours is not to reason why_"?

With a sigh, Agent Barton started the car. He paused before moving out, and the corner of his lip turned up.

He had miles to go before he slept.

-/-

"Matilda?" said Benton. "_Really?_"

The Australian woman on the next barstool nodded, a grin on her face. "Do not adjust your Cochlear implant, Doc. My father had a very odd sense of humor."

Her colleague started to reach for his ear before he stifled the habit.

"I'm sorry, was that -"

"No, its okay. I've had it for as long as I can remember. In case you were wondering, I'm not named after Reese's Pieces."

She laughed, and patted his thigh. Reese's heart beat faster.

Sophie Matilda Tucker had suggested the bar, and he could see why. It had a nice, friendly atmosphere, and didn't reek too much of stale alcohol. There was a rugby game on the TV over the bar, and a group of Aussies watching it at great volume.

"So, what should I drink?"

"Barkeep! Two VBs, please."

Behind him, a few people were coughing. Reese frowned. Both he and his half-Aboriginal colleague were trauma specialists, but...that sounded pretty bad.

"Leave it, Benton," Tucker chided, as their beers arrived. "We're off the clock."

-/-

"They _what_?" Eamon said.

Mei leaned against his office doorway. "Food imports. Apparently Kelda really sold them on coffee. And Bacon. And a bunch of other stuff."

"What about weapons and soldiers?"

"The brass are still working those details out, but food is a lot less likely to accidentally start a war." A thin smile. "Sitwell said something about how the most common relationship between two nations is trade."

"Oookay. Why are you telling me this? Isn't there going to be an announcement?"

"Sure. After it gets set up by some SHIELD flunky. Since it technically involves aliens, XCOM might have to be involved too."

Beat.

"Oh no."

That razor smile grew wider. "Oh yes."

Eamon, with a groan, lowered Irene's head onto his desk.

"If its any consolation," May added, "movie night starts in about 25 minutes."

"Mfft."

"In the cafeteria."

"Hnnrgh."

"So...I guess I'll go start the popcorn now -"

Eamon raised his head. "One more thing. Is it M-E-I or M-A-Y?"

"Melinda May, with an A."

"Thanks."

-/-

"Welcome," said Killian, "to my underground lair!"

The corner of Stane's lip twitched.

It was a nice house, really. Done in that distinctive South Florida style, with attractively weathered colonnades and a very airy feel.

At least it did topside.

The basement consisted of a sort of lab. Stane had set up a few dog-and-pony shows in his career, and he knew that what he was seeing was way too small to be an actual production facility.

Besides, if the place accidentally caught alight, Killian would need a really good explanation for the fire investigators.

"Our mutual benefactors recently got a sample of something from _their_ benefactors," the younger man said as they walked down the stairs. "It's called MELD."

There was a pause. Stane rolled his eyes and asked "What does it do?"

"Glad you asked. For one thing, it's great for cybernetics and genetic modifications. But my personal favorite?"

He pulled back a curtain in appropriately dramatic fashion.

On the bed was what should've been a corpse.

It looked like one. The raw skin poking out from under the smock, the missing limbs, the ruin of a face. But the monitor gently brushing against the transparent plastic skin of the oxygen tent was beeping softly, regularly. The chest was rising and falling. The chart on the bed said "JACK-"

"Care to do the honors?"

Killian was holding up a remote. Stane took it, pressed the button, watched as some sort of golden light flowed down the IV into Jack's body.

And then he took a gasping breath.

"You might want to step back a little," Killian said.

As Stane watched, the flesh began to knit back together. Something was flowing down the second IV-

"This part of the programme needs lots of energy. It also puts out a lot of energy. Is it getting warm in here?"

Wait, didn't Extremis -

He backed away in a hurry. The blond seemed utterly unconcerned, crossing his arms and leaning against a counter.

"My favorite thing," he finished, "is that it stabilizes Extremis."

"No explosions?"

"No explosions." He threw an arm over Stane's shoulder as an orderly drew the curtain. "Are you feeling hungry? My chef makes great Cuban-"

As the door at the top of the stairs closed behind them and the bodyguards a few seconds later, there was the whine of a saw starting up.

-/-

In her sleep, Vahlen's brow furrowed. Her nose twitched. Then she raised her head and opened her eyes.

There was a cup of coffee sitting on the desk in front of her.

"_Danke_," she muttered, reaching for it.

The BABYLON labs were nearly deserted at this time of morning. This wasn't the first time Vahlen had fallen asleep at a desk, and she was used to using paper for a pillow. The caffeine craving was exactly the same as it was when she slept in a bed, oddly enough.

"You're welcome," said the scientist, whose name she couldn't currently remember. He sounded faintly Italian. And had a moustache. "Doctor, when was the last time you slept in your room?"

She thought about it.

"See, the the fact that you have to think about it -"

"I know, I know, it's just...benzene."

"What about it?"

"The German chemist who figured out its structure had a dream about a snake eating its own tail. Which led him to realize that benzene's chemical structure was a ring of double-bonded carbon, with hydrogen atoms single-bonded to them."

"Oh, I see," the Italian sat down. "Like The Beatles with 'Yesterday'."

"Yes," Vahlen said, much like she had any idea what he was talking about. "Except for the part where he spent years studying the subject before that. And -" her hand made a fluttery little motion "- obviously, we don't _have_ years."

He leaned forward. "So what did you dream about?"

"I don't know. It...voices. Talking to me. I don't remember what they were saying."

"Have you tried talking to it?"

Vahlen stared at him.

"No, seriously! Do you have any better ideas?"

Without a word, Vahlen got up, and walked over to BABYLON.

"Hi," she said, with all the sarcasm she could muster at that time of morning. "Can you help me?"

"No, I meant - look, the base had one of those red _grigi_, _sì_?"

"_Sì_."

"And we already know they respond to psychic abilities. Which the red ones have."

"But I don't...I barely...my fire doesn't _do_ anything to it. It just made it glow. I haven't been able to throw anything around, and my -" ugh, she was going to have to say it out loud " - _telepathy_ is limited to picking up surface emotions."

There was the sound of someone with a moustache choking on his coffee.

"I'm flattered, by the way." She reached out to the object, laid a hand on it. "But I like my men slimmer." Quietly: "and less hairy."

She closed her eyes, concentrated, and **pushed** her amusement at the thing -

There was an echo.

She snatched her hand away and backed off. "_Meine Güte_!"

"Did it work? Are you all right?"

Her colleague was on his feet, and his chair was just clattering to the ground. Pierre, was it? No, that was Marceau.

"Yes, I'm...I'm fine. Let me just -"

This time, she tried asking. The echo was confused. Was it because of the longer message? Maybe -

She focused on her desire to find the alien ships, her need. The emotional component.

"D-doctor Vahlen? We're getting something." He was staring at the readouts from the instruments monitoring BABYLON. "Based on the waveform, it appears to be some sort of signal."

"Letting go."

"It's gone." The scientist straightened up. "_Dottore_, what did you _do_?"

Vahlen walked back to the table, on legs that felt slightly weak. "I suggest you go round up the rest of the team so we can find out."

He nodded, and scurried up the steps and out of the room, leaving his coffee behind.

Speaking of which...

She sent a burst of heat into her own cup, and took a sip.

Perfect temperature.

She took another sip.

Perrotta.

His name was Perrotta.

-/-

"Doctor?" someone said.

Rao turned around. Standing at the door to Medical was...Kristin Arnadottir. Iceland. She looked like she was trying to decide whether to be scared or hopeful. "Can I have a word?"

The doctor blinked. "My office."

The distraught young woman plunked herself in one of Rao's visitor chairs as the older woman closed the door.

"Does Jo...?"

"No, she doesn't monitor Medical, unless specifically given permission by me, the Director, or our immediate subordinates."

Some of the tension drained out of Arnadottir. "Good. That's...good."

"What's wrong?"

"Have...have you ever thought you were going mad?"

"Many times," Rao said drily.

The soldier blinked, then snorted. "How did you know you were not?"

"Cross-check. What's wrong?"

"I think I...saw something on the last mission. To Australia. I was looking through my Sharpshooter module when Rumlow was mind controlled, and I thought I saw lights around his head, purple lights. I assumed it was some sort of glitch in the modules but Development checked it out and they said it was working perfectly and it didn't show up on the helmet-cam recording so I was wondering if I could have been brain-damaged or if the x-rays put something into my head -"

"_Arnadottir_! Stop!" Rao thought for a moment, running her mind back through the torrent. "And you've had no similar visions since the incident?"

The Icelander shook her head.

"Are you claustrophobic?"

"Wh - why? Are you giving me an MRI?"

"To begin with. But that depends on whether you let me bring Research in on this."

"Why wo - did _they_ get to me?"

"Ah, no. Do you know what synesthesia is?"

"It's when you see something as one thing, but it registers in you brain as another. Like scent having a color, or a sound having a taste."

"Broadly." The doctor took a deep breath. "Have you ever heard the term '_the sixth sense_'?"

Arnadottir blinked.

Then her eyes opened very wide.

-/-

The medical room was quiet and calm. Somewhere distant, a clock ticked. Or maybe that was the air conditioning.

With left hand, she drummed on the exam table she was sitting on. What was it made of? Pleather?

"Miss Sitznski?"

Her head snapped up.

She didn't remember the doctor's name, later. She knew he said it. She remembered his height, clothes, the type of glasses he wore, but not his name.

She especially remembered the way he refused to look her in the eye.

"I'm sorry," he said, and a ball of ice promptly formed in Blanche's stomach.

As it happened, it turned out that being in close proximity to a large explosion wasn't good for one's body. Even with liberal usage of medkits and the best healthcare SHIELD had available, she would never return to the field as an operative.

She looked down at the floor.

Even though the injuries had healed enough for civilian life, her body wouldn't be able to take the stress of combat for any real length of time before breaking down.

There was _some_ good news. Her hearing loss was only temporary.

Her hand wasn't drumming now. It was clutching the table so hard her knuckles were white. She counted to four, inhaled. Counted to four, exhaled-

It wasn't working.

The brass was willing to offer her a training position -

"_Stop_," she said, and the doctor stopped. She looked up at him, her throat hot and tight, and he stepped back. She

She got off the bed, and walked - staggered, really - towards the waiting room. Her legs stopped working, and she collapsed into one of the chairs.

Her chest felt tight. Her head hurt. Someone came in and sat next to her.

"Hey, Connie," said Rumlow. She heard him lean forward and pick up a magazine. "They're checking me for any leftover psychic cra - Connie, are you okay?"

No, she wasn't. She'd never be again.

She hated crying..

Brock held her as the tears came.

-/-

He woke up.

Headache, light sensitivity, cottonmouth. Yeah, he had been tranqed. Again.

"Here. Let me help with that."

There was the not-unfamiliar sensation of liquid entering his arm. After a few seconds, most of the pain receded.

"Good stuff," he rasped.

"The best." There was the sound of someone sitting on a chair, and as his vision cleared, he realized he was looking at some surgery lights. He turned his head to the side.

The man in the chair white, was middle aged, with close-cropped hair. He wore a leather jacket and - weird - a monocle.

"What do you want with me?"

"We want to offer you a job, Doctor."

The young man looked pointedly at the metal straps holding him to the table. "If I had known this was going to be an interview, I would've worn a nicer suit."

Monocle's lip went up on one side. "The position opened up rather abruptly."

German accent. But unless they were complete morons, no one would exactly take him on an intercontinental trip.

"My organization has need of your bioscience expertise."

"What's the pay like?"

**Curiousity**.

That fuzz in his head...it wasn't the remaining effects of the tranquilizer, was it?

"Extremely generous."

They didn't want his intellect, they wanted his rage, his savagery. Hadn't there been rumors about the aliens using psychic powers?

The doctor, without closing his eyes or looking away, focused inward. "How about perks?"

"Full dental and medical."

"What about transporting my family?" C'mon, c'mon, where _was_ he?

"Famil - ah, you mean Doctor Ross. Be assured, we have her under close watch. One never knows when an..._accident_ may occur."

Ah. _There_ he was.

The man in the chair jumped, ever so slighly, as the monitor next to the surgical table began to beep faster.

"What?" said Monocle, apparently to no one in particular. "Then take direct control."

The pressure on the doctor's mind suddenly increased, like going from drops of water to a Super Soaker. It **wanted** in.

Neither he nor the Other Guy were inclined to comply. He closed his eyes and _pushed_ back.

"Of _course_ you can! If he's anything like your Mutons -"

"Strucker!" called a voice from the ceiling.

There was the sound of a chair being overturned. He turned to Monocle and found him backing away at a speed just short of a run.

"Guards," he said hoarsely. "_Guards_!"

For the man on the bed, the presence retreated from his mind in a hurry, something almost like fear tinging it. _Good_, he thought, his heart beating faster. _That means they know what I can do_.

As the man in the jacket vanished in the gloom, lights suddenly appeared in the dark. All of them at about chest level. There were quiet little mechanical noises. Did this have something to do with those people on the news fighting the aliens? Were they some sort of black-ops division? General Ross couldn't have this much push...could he?

"I'm curious," Dr. Bruce Banner said. He grinned at the guards, even through the pain. The metal band on his right arm popped off of his expanding wrist. "How _exactly_ did you see this going?"

**- H -**

**"Blank Space" - Taylor Swift**

Reese Benton is a reference to the ER character, because why not.

Turns out Kristin Arnadottir is the name of a real person; she's an Icelandic ambassador.


	21. 19 Small Parts

**19 Small parts**

**-S-**

Aanya was a good girl.

She was very proud of it.

When Mommy put her to bed, she could tell that Mommy was sad about Daddy having to go to work, so she was quiet. She fell asleep after a few minutes of fidgeting.

When she woke up, the whole _house_ was shaking! Was it an earthquake? She hid under her bed.

Her mommy came in, calling her name. "Under here, mommy!"

"What are you doing?"

"They said if there's an earthquake, we should hide!" Duh. Didn't mommies pay attention in class?

"This isn't a-" Mommy paused. "Never mind. Scoot over."

And then she got under the bed, and held Aanya in her arms. "Do you want to play a game?"

"What kind of game?" Aanya yawned.

"Who can be the quietest."

"Okay!"

The next thing she remembered, after the sound of Mommy's breathing, the feel of her heartbeat, was Daddy calling her name, and her Mommy's name. She wriggled out of Mommy's arms, and went to meet him, and he grabbed her and squeezed her very, very hard. His face was wet. She couldn't remember the last time she saw him crying.

And then Mommy and Daddy said each other's names, and then they ran to each other and they were hugging and - ew - _kissing_. Aanya looked away.

Wait, where was the rest of their house?

-/-

**Aliens fight "Hulk"? - New Delhi Times**

-/-

Both "Scarlet" and "White Queen" had been deployed onto one of SHIELD's cheerier combat arenas. Broken cover, poor lighting, minimal combat training, and paintball guns.

The difference in their approaches was interesting to Caitlyn. Frost's defensive ability kept her from harm, but made her extremely visible. She also couldn't go into what she sardonically called "de Beers mode" and use her other abilities at the same time, like her psychic lance, or the ability to sense emotion. By contrast, Maxime's defensive field only deflected projectiles, not blunted them entirely, and she could still use her other abilities, like her telekinesis, or that strange accuracy-enhancing trick she did.

"You think it's something she does to her reflexes and eyes, or...?" Agent Johnson asked, a few feet away. Caitlyn ignored them, making a note to check whether the girls' abilities were determined by their personalities, or vice versa.

"Don't know." The male agent leaned against the window of the observation booth, his forearm horizontal over his head.

Had Wanda been a stuttering wallflower before? She had said something about a missing brother - perhaps they had had a codependent relationship.

Cait snuck a peek at the male agent's rather well-toned arm muscles.

"What's the pool say?" Johnson continued.

The other agent - Tony, his name was Tony - smirked. "Probability manipulation."

"Oh, yeah, that's it. She's got psychic control over an abstract concept. That makes sense." Beat. "Then why the red flashes?"

"You mean the 'diamond' reflections."

"No, I mean the way her eyes glow red when she's using her powers."

"Very funny."

Below, Frost had made a risky maneuver, jumping over a rock to get inside Maxime's deflection field and closing to point-blank range. She had swept the other woman's feet out from under her, and when she hit the ground, there was a paintball marker pointed at her head.

Interesting. Had HYDRA influenced the American to be more aggressive, or had they tailored her psionic mutations to her personality?

"No, seriously! Just like Frost's eyes go white! How can you not _see_ that?"

"Pardon me," the scientist broke in. "You said you're seeing light when Maxime uses her powers?"

"Uh, yeah. Is...is that a problem?"

"No, it's just that ...well, we were forwarded a report from Miss Simmons, who had it forwarded to her from XCOM."

Johnson shrugged. "...So?"

"In some cases, they found that people with psionic abilities of their own were able to see light when others used their abilities."

The other woman's lips pursed. "Sooo...you want me to hop in one of those tanks, don't you?"

Caitlyn nearly nodded her head off. "Yes. Yes, please."

"Say," chimed in the male agent. "Aren't you claustrophobic?"

"_Shut it_, Tony!"

-/-

**Gun Sales at Record highs: "We had to build a new range." - Fox News**

-/-

Svetlana was pretty good at being unobtrusive.

She had gotten a degree in Political Science from a Western university, sponsored by the man who would hire her as his aide, on his rise through the ranks. It behoved them both to let people think she was the wink-sink-nudge-nudge sort of aide, not the sort who actually aided.

For example; when the new Minister for Special Projects asked for a meeting with the Minister of Defense, she had gone along, and stood discreetly at the back, pretending to check her Facebook. In reality, she was making notes.

Lukin offered the requisite drink, which her boss refused. The light spots where his predecessor's paintings and photographs had hung were still on the walls. _Pictures a message?_

"I wish," said the Defense Minister, "that we could meet under better circumstances."

Lukin sighed. "So do I." He sat down behind his desk, and gestured to his own unhung pictures. "A shame about what happened to Vasily. Pardon the mess."

"It is all right."

The younger man ran a hand over his face. _In shirtsleeves, slightly rumpled, bags under eyes._ _Deliberate?_ "To business. We are both very busy men." _Flattery?_ "I have received a request from the Council, regarding data on certain classified experiments, and it falls under your purview."

"Does it?" Her boss did that puzzled head-cock that reminded her of a dog.

Lukin slid a file across the desk. The other Minister took it, and began to read. Svetlana studied the billionaire's face. _Why is he here? He doesn't need the job. A patriot? Dangerous._

The older man scoffed. "Psychic research? There's a reason this was abandoned decades ago, Aleksander!"

"But XCOM feels they may be able to use this information to assist in their own program, which has met with somewhat more success. In particular, they expect the information on mental conditioning could help protect their soldiers from the alien...compulsions, shall we call them?"

"Indeed." The older man cleared his throat. "But...there is some overlap with another project. I believe it was called 'Cold Shou-'"

"That won't be part of the information," Lukin said sharply.

Interesting.

"What I mean to say is, that was outside the scope of the request. We can't give away _all_ of our secrets, of course."

"Of course." Her boss looked at his watch, and stood. "But like you said, we are busy men. I see no problem with their request. Just send the paperwork to my office."

Lukin rose as well. "To the lovely Svetlana here?"

"Ah, no. To my secretary."

Lukin escorted the Minister for Defense to the door. "Do they have any leads?"

"Eh?"

"On Vasily's murder."

"None that I know of."

"Ah." He pursed his lips. "A pity."

The older Minister left first, and Svetlana started to follow, before Lukin's arm shot out. "A moment, please."

_Doesn't look like a man who can handle himself. May be deliberate; he was in the military. But he would never hurt someone so close to the Minister of Defense...would he?_

Play the dumb assistant. Or plaything. Or both. "Sir?"

The oligarch smiled before removing his hand. "I just wanted to say...I'm glad you were paying attention."

Oh.

Uh-oh.

-/-

**Lukin appointed Special Projects Minister: Experts Worried about conflict of interest - Russia Today**

-/-

Pyotr stood in an alley that, admittedly, wasn't much dirtier than the men's restroom inside, and looked over the file.

Corporal Petrov was in his 20s, very recently divorced, and had exemplary marks across the board. Which lead to the question of why the FSB was playing messenger instead of him officially being assigned to some classified duty, but after that video with the snakemen, maybe it was best their protectors left no paper trail.

He put the phone away, and blew a cloud of smoke into the air.

Right now, his partner would be "tripping" all over their subject, blowing a boozy breath into his face. She'd "notice" the crew cut, maybe trace a line over his jaw or cheekbones, look deeply into his eyes, and whisper something into his ear. Then, pulling on his arm, she'd lead him away from his friends, toward the back door, and they'd be emerging right about…

Pyotr took a long drag.

Now.

The fire door, alarm long since disabled, was pushed open, slamming against the dumpster. Petrov had eyes only for the leggy blonde in the puffy jacket.

Then he saw Pyotr, and stiffened. Strange how they could always tell with him and not Belova.

The young soldier turned around, only to find Yelena brandishing a gun that she had apparently pulled out of thin air. He sagged, and raised his hands.

"Just take my wallet. Please."

"We're not here for your money," said Belova.

The soldier looked at her.

"We're with Security," she clarified.

Petrov was good at hiding the tension, but his fingers still curled. "What does the FSB want with me?"

"To deliver a message. A job offer," Pyotr said

Petrov turned. "I already have one."

"Think of it more as a reassignment."

"To where?"

"Do you remember Moscow?"

"How could I ever-" His eyes grew wide. "Oh no."

Belova smiled. "Oh yes." She gestured at the remarkably unremarkable sedan. "Get in. Back seat."

The younger man paused, halfway into the car. "When I asked if they had any job applications, I was joking."

"Well," said Pyotr, "You'll just have to mind your tongue in the future."

-/-

**World birthrates increasing - Pravda**

-/-

Loretta Cobb came out the back door of Isabel's diner.

"Bill!" she shouted. "Bill Cobb, where are ya?"

It was funny, but for guys in golden armor, those fancy Asgardian guards could come out of nowhere. For example, the one currently putting his hand over Loretta's mouth.

"_Mmph_?"

He pointed behind her. There was a ladder to the roof, but they usually kept that covered and locked, but - ah.

She looked up. There, sitting on the roof, taking no notice of anything that wasn't the book between them or each other, were her son and the Emissary.

Loretta's eyes crinkled.

Once upon a time, she had sat next to Bill's father in exactly the same way, leaning in just a little closer than she needed, brushing against him just a little more than necessary.

There was a tight feeling in her chest at the memory, just for an instant.

Of course, Kelda was a lot older and more experienced than she looked. As she reached out to turn the page, her hand bumped against his.

She looked at Loretta, and winked.

Bill's mother sighed, turned to face the guard. "Lord knows he hasn't had much in his life since his pa died," she said, her voice pitched low, to not carry. "I figure I can strap on an apron for a half-hour."

The guard titled his head, and spread his arm toward the door, like a butler.

"Oh, la-dee-dah."

-/-

**Urbanites Fleeing Cities - Albuquerque Sun**

-/-

The problem with helping to save humanity was that you couldn't tell anyone.

Especially your parents.

Jeong tried to hold them off, he really did. He told them that he was working on something important, and when that failed, something _really_ important, which was about as precise as he could get. He hadn't even heard of most of the American stereotypes for Asian parents before XCOM hired him, and it was bitterly ironic that he was the only one there who even came _close_.

"_Why can't you be a doctor, like your brother?_" he mocked, as he moved a ring a few fractions of a millimeter. "_He's a real doctor_. Because engineering doesn't count, apparently."

He saved his work. "Jo, toss it to the table, please?"

There was a soft chime, and the device rendered slowly, in motes of light. It wasn't like it couldn't be done faster, but she liked her theatrics, did Jocasta.

Jeong took a drink from his water bottle. Or he would've, if he hadn't finished it three hours ago.

"Great."

He tossed it toward the garbage, only for it to bounce off the tim and hit the floor, where it was picked up by a man with an unusual beard, who dropped it in.

"Chief Stark! I, uh -"

"You look like a man trying to burn off some steam. Tried the gym?"

Jeong shook his head.

"Mmmh." Stark looked around the room. "Where is everyone?"

"Movie night," Singh volunteered, brushing past Tony. He walked up to the holotable, stared at the schematic on it.

The Korean went "It's just a rough Idea-"

"Since when do we have movie night?" Tony interrupted.

"Irene's idea. Actually, it was SHIELD's idea. She just passed it along."

"What are they watching?"

"Uh..._Sherlock Holmes_?"

"That's a good one. So, a chainsword?"

"What?" Jeong said.

"This. It's a chainsword, right?"

"What? Wait, no, not exactly. More like a-a-a...hair clipper. High-Frequency vibrating blades."

"Isn't that still experimental?" Singh said. He ran his fingers through the diagram.

"So are powered armor and psychics," Tony said. "I take it the cutting edge is concealed in the hilt?"

"Right," Jeong said, "Until it's activated, at which point it unreels and a magnetic field keeps it stiff."

"Were you planning to run it off of suit power?" Tony asked. "'Cause I don't think the induction or the couplers could push enough power, especially if you're going to be changing your grip all the time."

The Korean's face warmed up. "I didn't...I didn't think.-"

"-Of asking SHIELD if Vanko could lend you one of her repulsor nodes to power it? Good plan. Maybe it can channel electricity too."

"Tony," Singh cut in. "Are you trying to trick him into building you an _electric lightsaber_?"

"Oh, not _me_." Tony grinned. "The good men and women of XCOM. now, if he has any extras, I could use a really cool letter ope-"

Something pinged in his office.

"Speaking of which. Excuse me."

And he vanished into his office and closed the door behind him, leaving Jeong standing outside with a grinning Singh on the other side of the holotable.

"What?"

Singh's grin got wider. "Sempai noticed you!"

Jeong blinked. "I don't get it."

-/-

**16 Cutest Panic Rooms - Buzzfeed**

-/-

Reese pulled off his surgical mask, and stared at himself in the mirror.

Bloodshot eyes, check. Bags and dark circles, check. Haven't shaved in two days, check.

"Dr. Benton," he murmured. "You've come down with a serious case of being completely exhausted."

He closed his eyes. It wasn't sleep, wasn't even close, but just for a second or two it got him away from the fluorescent light. Couldn't do anything about the smell, though. Or the wet coughs outside the bathroom.

Maybe he could take a nap in the broom closet.

His phone rang.

"Hi, Dad. No, I'm on break. Masks and scrubs, eye protection. I don't know, it might've gotten out of the country ahead of it. Pretty likely, actually, given the incubation period. We're..." Reese rubbed his eyes. "Fine, all fine. No suspicious coughing. If it does get to the States -"

He gave a shrug his father would never see.

"-You'll know before we d -"

"Benton!" Sophie called from the doorway.

"Duty calls. Bye."

He splashed some cold water on his face, scrubbed up, and had gloves on and mask up by the time he reached the patient.

The thing about this particular strain of the flue was the sudden onset. You could be incubating for who-knows-how-long. Then you get a case of the sniffles. Then, practically overnight, your head started spinning. If you were really lucky, you didn't get the vomiting and fever before you started blacking out.

"What happened?" Well, aside from the whole "shinbone sticking out of her leg" thing, which was pretty obvious.

"She was driving herself to the hospital, when she swerved into a restaurant. The person who called it in said she was out cold."

Well, at least it wasn't like those third degree Burns he had seen yesterday. Just a nice, straightforward fracture.

"Heart rate's falling," called one of the nurses.

Well, of _course_!

"Contact her next of kin," Reese barked. "See if she has any issues."

Sophie coughed.

The American looked up sharply. His girlfriend met his eyes, just for a second, and a jolt of fear worked its way up his spine.

What Would Dad Do?

He'd use the fear. Focus it. The faster he finished, the faster he'd be able to deal with...the next problem.

He took a deep breath. Distantly, there were the sounds of yet another bus pulling in, and more of that coughing that never went away.

He could _really_ use a cup of coffee.

"All right, ladies and gentlemen. Let's get stuck in."

-/-

**Thousands Sick from Australian Flu; Officials Baffled - Sydney Morning Herald **

-/-

Derek logged into his work and tide waited for no man, and he might as well save a little of the former.

He kept an eye on Junior as he raced across the playground towards, feet kicking up sand.

"Dad! _Daaad_!"

Derek pretended that he hadn't noticed his son's approach. "DJ?"

"Look what I can do!"

And then he did a handstand.

"That's great, buddy!"

DJ beamed at him, and broke for the swings.

He had his mother's eyes.

Derek checked his watch.

"Which one's yours, Lieutenant?"

Derek's brow furrowed, and he looked left. There was a man standing next to his park bench. Tall, broad shoulders, dark hair. Smiling, for some reason.

"I'm sorry, have we met?"

"Nope, I was in the Army."

"So how do you -"

"Nice phone you have."

Derek's eyes automatically flicked down, and he found his phone's screen was displaying his discharge papers. How -

The stranger sat next to him.

"Y'know, I've got a son of my own," he said, seriously. "I'd do just about _anything_ to keep him safe."

Could he get to his ankle holster?

The stranger's hand rested on his shoulder.

"Right now, we're just two guys talking on a park bench. Just two dads having a chat. Now, if something bad were to happen, well, my friend on the third floor might just...overreact."

There was one window open on the third floor. Derek caught a tiny point of red light.

Like the laser on a gun.

Of course, if they had wanted to threaten him, he'd have a gun in his ribs. Which, by process of elimination, left -

DJ finished tying his shoelace, waved at his dad, and scurried off.

"What do you want from me?" Derek asked. His voice sounded flat and numb, even to himself.

"Relax, Hanson." The stranger was smiling again. "All I want you to do is open a door."

-/-

So.

Who was Wade Wilson?

Vega stood on the other side of the door to Aldrich Killian's home office, with his boss on the other side, snatches of their client's phone conversation drifting through the door.

And snatches of Wilson's humming.

_"...the optics of the name."_

They knew he was Canadian, had served in their armed forces. A lot of it wasn't available to even their collective connections; all they got was something about "Department H", which didn't officially exist.

_"...Deathlok, it's not exactly family friendly..."_

Well, it wasn't exactly like black-ops backgrounds were unusual in private security. Or...mental issues, after someone got Sectioned out of the regular forces. But they usually didn't end up running the detail on a billionaire. Or being the only survivor of a terrorist attack.

Then again, most terrorists didn't carry _lasers_.

_"...long-term perception..."_

Also, his clothes. Working for Killian was bad enough. But Wilson dressed in the normal bodyguard black suit, sure, with a red and black sports shirt under it. And then there was the document tube he wore at all times. And the humming.

Vega's fingers twitched.

Always with the humming.

_"...liberty of getting a focus group..."_

Well, not always. Just at random. Just enough to be irritating.

Vega said "hey, Wilson-"

"Look," the Canadian said, without looking. "I know there's been a lot of talk about me, and you should know two things. One, I like chimichangas, and two, I don't mix business and pleasure. I don't get involved with co-workers, sorry."

Wait, what? _What?_

"I wasn't-that's not-"

Was that a smile on Wilson's lips? "No matter how hot they are."

Vega decided to stick to silence.

_"...was Sentinel."_

-/-

**Alien-Shock?:Harry Styles checks into psych ward. - Mail Online**

**-H-**

Caitlyn is played by Molly Quinn.

The Man in the Park is played by David Boreanaz.


	22. 20 I think it's time to blow this scene

**20 I think it's time to blow this scene**

**-S-**

"Doctor?"

"Director. I have something on that new contact. It's probably some sort of supply barge, and I'm...getting the impression that some sort of powerful or highly-ranked alien is on it."

"You're 'getting'?"

"It...it's difficult to explain."

"Jocasta says you're sleeping near it."

"I was falling asleep so often I decided to just...simplify matters. If there's an alert -"

"Is that what you're telling me, or yourself?"

"...We don't have anyone else who can work the Beacon."

"We can train someone. Frankly, both I and Doctor Marceau are worried about potential-"

"Potential. Paula, we need to prioritize the reality of the situation over potential downsides."

"Pardon me?"

"I...I...mean, _Director_, we need the intelligence more than I need a good night's sleep."

"Are you saying you haven't been -"

"I won't take up any more of your time. Goodbye."

-/-

"Listen up, people!" said Viking. "We'll be landing in Northern Wales, at around 9:45 at night. Our intel indicates that we'll be facing a downed supply barge, which may have _this_ high value target."

The 'Ranger's screen showed an alien with a thin frame and metal helm, composited from Irene's descriptions and images obtained from interrogations.

"We're calling it an Ethereal. And since we're in Wales, there's a chance you may run into words with a dangerous amount of Ls and Ys. Exercise extreme caution."

"Aren't you Swedish?" someone said.

"Exactly. We just have a lot of umlauts. While they're physically weak, the Ethereals may be some of the strongest Psionic opponents we've ever faced, with strong shields that can reflect our attacks. Avoid engaging it directly."

"How do we know all this, Nilsson?" Levin said.

"I didn't ask. I'd rather _not_ be facing a pissed off psychic X-ray while thinking about how we pulled his buddy's brains out through his ear, wouldn't you?"

Arnadottir smiled.

"Thought not. Landing in five."

-/-

"Central," Jocasta said, "The feeds from the nearby farm show a complete absence of inhabitants."

"Any sign of a struggle?"

"A few emergency calls, but they taper off sharply after a certain point. No audio within range of any cell phones or computers with microphones. No calls picked up or made."

"Let me guess; the contact loss is moving outward from the crash site."

"Yes. How'd you -"

"Hotel, be advised; enemy forces are probably mind-controlling the civilians."

"_Say again, Central?_"

"The X-rays may have compromised the civilian population."

"_Roger. Rules of engagement?_"

Bradford passed a hand over his face. "If you and the Specialists can't take them down non-lethally, you are authorized to use all necessary force."

Nilsson was silent for a few seconds. Then a crisp "_Sir._"

-/-

Eirik stared at the device in his hand.

"What sort of warrior would have the people to fight for him whether they will it or no?" he whispered.

"One without honor," Bjarke rumbled. His mouth quirked up at the corner, just a little. "Perhaps one without hope."

The youth smiled right back - that was about as demonstrative as the larger wizard ever got - and glanced at the other two Asgardians on his team. Ragna was trying to pay attention to everything at once, concealing her fear under hauteur, and maintaining the spell that muffled the team's steps. Magnhild, by contrast, was the youngest member of the team, clearly scared, and the least experienced. She kept looking around at the woods they were passing through.

Of course, they were _all_ inexperienced against the strange foes the team faced.

Comforting thought.

Well, a good leader thought about the morale of his subordinates, not just himself. To that end

"Fear not, Magnhild," Eirik said. "Why, I would wager that the Midgardans have inflated the problem. I suspect these 'Mutons' to be nothing more than someone's lost monkey. Perhaps one that got into their green paint."

The youngest mage stared at him, then giggled.

"Why," continued Eirik, as they rounded a large, protruding piece of rock, "all we need do is clip the lead on the collar and return it to its owners, and we get a handsome reward." He theatrically plucked at the clothing he was wearing; black "tactical gear", supplied by SHIELD. "And then perhaps we will have no further need of these gar-"

And that was when he bumped into something. Something massive. How had it moved so quietly? Perhaps they should've checked to see whether the Ragna's veil concealed the steps of others coming in, not just his team's going out.

The creature began to turn its weapon on him. Behind it were more of them, and Eirik, as trained, tried to push the weapon away.

It almost worked.

-/-

Once, Irene had said that XCOM used to eat popcorn while watching missions. That had stopped after that one mission in Shanghai, one of their "Code Blacks". Seemed inappropriate.

It would probably be just as inappropriate to eat popcorn while an emissary from an alien civilization was watching her hand-picked team of wizards walk straight into the enemy.

The worst part, May thought, was that their drone coverage hadn't known the X-rays were there either. The forest provided dense cover from the air, and they had been relying on the take from the mages' SHIELD-issued cameras. One of which was obliterated as a Eirik took a plasma shotgun blast across what was probably half his torso.

May's palms itched.

"Kelda was trained by Loki," Irene murmured. "Which is why her students were able to travel without the Bifrost. In a sense, those are her kids on the battlefield, even though they're probably centuries old. I can't imagine what she must be feeling, watching people she cares about risking their lives, even dying."

May closed her eyes.

She didn't have to imagine. She had memories.

-/-

Bjarke's massive hammer swung into the rock that towered over the scene.

More akin to a sledgehammer than Mjolnir, it took two hands to use effectively. Instead of leaving a dent in the stone, it seemed to cut through it at an angle, despite the superficial impact. He moved the head of the weapon to the side, and the rock slid to the left and down along the axis of the shear.

This meant that the Muton that had attacked Eirik was instantly smashed, leaving its compatriots on the far side of the rock.

Leaving the Asgardians with a leader with his left arm and much of his torso missing.

"I…" Ragna said, and stopped.

"I don't…"

She ran down again.

Magnhild was crying, even while she pumped so much healing magic into Eirik that the air shifted to blue. She was saying something about how she had never gotten to tell him something.

As for Bjarke, after his reflexive action to eliminate the nearest threat, he was lost. He hadn't really been paying attention during the briefing, when the man with the shorn head told them about their foes. He had always left those matters to Eirik. And now, the life was slipping out of his friend's body even as he watched. Moreover, the Midgardian communications device had been destroyed-

Something glowed on Eirik's body. Ragna reached for it, plucked it from the inside of his clothing.

"A...scrying crystal?"

"_Yes, it is._"

"Lady Kelda?"

"_Yes. Eirik's met a terrible fate, hasn't he?_"

"I think…" Magnhild ventured. "I _think_ I can get him stabilized."

"_Can you do it in the next ten seconds?_"

"N-no."

"_Then that limits our options considerably_."

-/-

There was a barn on a hill, next to a farmhouse, with a commanding view of the entire area.

Which also meant that the snipers the thermals showed in it had a clear view of anyone approaching the crashed alien craft on the other side of the hill.

"Oh, and that's not the best part!" said Teasdale. "I'm pretty sure some of the Tangos in there are human."

Arnadottir and Levin immediately bought up their scopes in the same synchronized motion, the Australian noted.

"He's right," Levin confirmed. "If we poke our heads out, they get shot off. If we charge up the hill, even with the Arc Shield on Bernie, we won't make it."

"Any suggestions?" Nilsson asked. His gaze fell on Washington.

"Spots, can you see through people's eyes when you do your mind-control thing?"

The Icelandic woman shifted uncomfortably in her new psi-boosting bodysuit. "Well, yes, but I'm not sure it would work at this range."

"It needs optical line of sight, right? Isn't your scope optical?"

"Yes, but wouldn't you rather use the Pinger?"

"Doesn't have the range." Viking said. "You're our best shot. Mind control them, and get us that intel. If we can take out the X-rays, the humans will be much easier to deal with."

"But, you know," chimed in Pulaski. "No pressure."

-/-

The Sectoid rounded the rock with its weapon leveled, ready to dive away at the first sign of trouble. All it saw was a pair of humans, one cradling the other in its arms and making strange noises. What was it called? Crying. A human emotional response indicating distress. Or joy. Or both.

Humans were strange.

Still, these humans were displaying strange abilities, and the Exalted wanted to get a closer look at them. After a few seconds where the Sectoid wasn't shot, he gestured at the Muton hiding just out of view. It moved around the shorn rock with no less caution, but with a certain amount of confidence. It bore a plasma rifle, and advanced cautiously upon the humans, another Muton appearing to back it up.

The Exalted had commanded them to investigate the forest, to secure against flanking attacks and that had proven a wise decision. If they could capture the humans, they could be examined, dissected, weighed, and measured. Perhaps the Sectoid would even be rewarded for being part of the team that found them.

The lead Muton reached out to the human, and its hand passed right through.

-/-

"You know," said Kelda conversationally, "It's that moment of dawning comprehension I _live_ for."

-/-

Ragna's illusion flickered and died, and Bjarke took aim at a tree.

The interesting thing about sympathetic magic was that you only had to knock over one tree for all of the trees you linked to it also come down. And when you were a trained battle-mage, you could bring trees down with great precision.

Such as, for example, if you wanted to trap a handful of aliens in an area where your healer-slash-nature-mage could proceed to whip up a small tornado, sending two Mutons and one hapless Sectoid flying into the air.

"How fares Eirik?" Bjarke said, as he walked over to where Magnhild tended their leader, his hammer smoking.

"I think he'll live," said Magnhild quietly.

"_Good_." said the Crystal. "_You must go._"

Ragna blinked. "Lady Kelda, I would not wish to question your -"

"_Then_ don't. _Join forces with the Midgard XCOM soldiers. Take Eirik with you; these woods are dark and, possibly, full of danger. And his death would count for naught if our allies fell._"

"Aye," Bjarke rumbled. The large Asgardian was inspecting his hammer with a certain theatricality. He rubbed at a smudge with his thumb. "Besides, we must avenge Eirik."

Behind him, there were a trio of wet splats; the sounds of three beings falling from a very great height.

"As the humans would say, we have only made a down payment."

-/-

"Anyone sitting here?"

Petrov looked up from his shot glass. The man asking about the next barstool was white, and sounded American.

"No," said the Russian.

On the other side of the bar, some of the troops and support personnel were watching the current mission. Petrov hadn't gone over there,because she doubtless would've said something stupid and made himself look like a fool. It was not as if a few weeks of being a glorified security guard made you an expert.

"Vodka?" said the American.

Petrov snorted. "Jack Daniels."

"No, I wasn't -" The stranger fumbled to a stop. "Look, I was just wondering if you had any suggestions."

Petrov blinked, pointed to a bottle. Masters caught the bartender's eye, held up a finger, and a glass was slid over to him.

"Good stuff. Some first week, huh?"

Petrov took a closer look. "Wait, I know you...Masterson, right?"

"Masters, Tony Masters. And you are...?"

"Petrov. Russian Army."

"Marines."

They shook hands.

"Isn't the chief engineer named Tony?"

"Tony Stark, that's right. He used to be just another spoiled trust fund kid, but I hear he's made a name for himself."

"He built the suits?"

"_Da, comrade_."

"That was terrible."

"Sorry. We didn't run into many Russians in the sandbox." He took a sip. "All _this_? _Lots_ different from the Corps."

"I was a rifleman. This is nothing we were ever trained for. Well, until now." Petrov raised his glass to his lips, and stopped. "Wait...let me try this." He cleared his throat. "Jocasta? What happened to the sniper I worked with in Moscow?"

"Mundy sustained a critical head injury, was put into a coma, and is currently in long-term medical care. He's not expected to wake up." The AI sounded remarkably lifelike as she said "I'm sorry."

Masters swore.

Petrov muttered something in Russian. "I barely knew him, but...he seemed like good guy."

He raised his glass, went "_zemlya pukhom_", drained it. "Barkeeper? Another."

The Russian's eyebrows went up, and he turned to his new friend. "Forgot to ask. What is your specialty?"

"Me?" Masters said. "I do a little of everything."

-/-

"What's his name?" Levin said, quietly.

With the information gleaned by Arnadottir, a SWAT entry had been child's play. The aliens had been killed, the...coerced human family neutralized.

Which left the actual child.

Levin had broken his arm before his mind had time to even realize what he was facing.

Not like last time.

But there had been lots of time for it to sink in while he choked him out.

"I am _not_ telling you his name," Jocasta said. "You do not need that on your conscience."

"Fine." He walked to the door facing the house, and stood next to it. "Then I'll check the house."

"Try it and I'll lock your suit down."

"Hey!" Pulaski said. "Anyone want a cheeseburger?"

The aliens had, for the most part, ignored the animals in the barn. Except for one irate cow, which explained the dead Sectoid Spots had seen. She hadn't noticed that they had killed the cow in return.

"Sure," Levin replied. "With fries and a big chocolate milkshake."

"Only if you're cooking them medium radioactive." Washington patted his stomach. "Diet."

"We don't have any restraints," Teasdale complained.

Viking said "We're in a barn, and you're wearing powered armor. Use wire or something. Get creati -"

Something kicked Levin in the chest, and he staggered back a little. Looked down, at the burnt hole over the chest aperture, where the repulsor beam came out.

A weakpoint.

The next two plasma bolts caught him in the head.

-/-

Arnadottir had time to think, as she watched him fall in slow-motion, _only infiltrators are so precise_-

And then Nilsson was yelling at Bernie to cover the door -

- and she was next to Levin, asking him if he was okay asking him to say something, say _anything_, asking why no one was _helping_ -

- and there was snap-hiss of the Rover's shield deploying -

- and Viking was there, on the other side of Levin, popping the mask.

He shone a light into the Israeli's eyes, and then frowned. "Concussion."

"Didn't say you're not a medic?" Arnadottiir said numbly.

"Not a trained medic, no. But I've been in a lot of fi-"

The air in the middle of the barn shimmered.

Everyone in Hotel who was still standing had their weapon up before the three figures became visible in the middle of the parn. The youngest-looking raised her hands and said "we...we come in peace?"

"Treble," Nilsson said.

The three oddly-dressed strangers looked at each other. The taller woman said "We don't know what that means."

"Hotel, Central," came Bradford's voice over the radio. "They're the Consultants. Their leader had the countersign, and he was downed."

Hotel squad relaxed. A little.

"I assume that's him on the big guy's shoulder?" the Swede asked.

"Yes."

"Can they heal?"

"Yes."

"Can you ask them to take a look at Shiny?"

"Certainly," said the younger woman.

As it turned out, their medic found that the injury was critical - Kirsten's hands clenched into fists - and the rest of the team introduced themselves to the Asgardians. The fallen squad leader was named Eirik, the medic was Magnhild, their recon was Ragna, and the big guy was -

"My name is Bjarke."

Nilsson's head snapped up. "Really?"

"Whaddya mean, boss?" Pulaski asked.

"His name. It means 'bear'."

Pulaski looked up at the massive Asgardian, who was looking down on him with a crooked smile. "Huh." He held out his hand.

While Pulaski tried to explain what a "handshake" was, Viking stood. "I haven't really been told what you can do. Can any of you see inside that house?"

Ragna nodded, and muttered something. An image appeared, of the view out the door.

"That wasn't exactly what I -"

"_Patience_, son of Nils." The image moved forward, like someone was flying a drone. A drone that went straight through the window, then spun, revealing a human with a plasma sniper rifle.

Viking studied the image. "He could be mind-controlled."

"His mind is his own," Arnadottir murmured.

Nilsson turned to her. "You can use your abilities through this?"

"Counts as line of sight, apparently."

The infiltrator dropped his rifle, and was reaching for his sidearm. His hand was shaking, and his face looked terrified.

"Arnadottir -"

Her eyes were closed. "_Shhh._"

The alien's hand closed on its weapon, and its arm convulsively jerked up, to point at its head. It tried to pull away -

Kirsten's right index finger twitched.

The pistol fired.

"There. Neutralized. Any other threats?"

Everyone was staring at her.

"What?"

-/-

The plan was for Magnhild to tend to Eirik and Levin - who was going to be _just fine_ - while Ragna scouted the ship, hopefully finding their HVT, and giving them enough intel to proceed. Bjarke was escorting her, presumably in case they needed to bring down a house.

Arnadottir sat down and closed her eyes. She tried to control her breathing. She focused.

Her hands stopped shaking.

She could hear the healer chanting something over both of her patients. They had moved both to the most comfortable, sanitary position they could find, which, considering that they were in a barn, was not very clean at all. XCOM's troops - except for her, of course - were guarding the perimeter, while she tried to prepare herself.

Which meant she had lots of time to think about the mortality and brain damage rates for head injuries.

Ah, the perks of the job.

"_We have arrived_," Ragna said. Her voice was sent through the scrying crystal to Kelda at SHIELD's base in New Mexico, where it was picked up and retransmitted to Jocasta at XCOM HQ, and beamed back to Hotel Squad's radios a few hundred feet away from where it had started.

Seemed a bit mundane for some of the most advanced technology on the planet.

"Spots? You're up," Viking said.

"_It seems their command room has been breached. But this material is interfering with my scrying. I have only get a limited view-_"

"And that's where I come in," Arnadottir muttered, and **reached** into the room.

Levin had once taught her how to "bank" her emotions, to store them until later where they could be released under controlled circumstances. She tries to imagine pushing it away, sticking it in a little box.

"I don't have enough range. Activating amp."

And there it was.

This Muton she was controlling was clad in more armor than the usual model, even more than the CQC specialists with the shotguns XCOM had encountered. There were four of them, surrounding a robed alien in some kind of helmet, which was touching some sort of metal device that glowed orange in places.

She dutifully relayed the information back to the team, and Bradford confirmed that she had eyes on their target. Even if they weren't her eyes.

"Sir, there seem to be objects near the target with wires coming out of them. I suspect they're explosives."

"Based on what?"

"They're green and glowing."

"_Do objects that glow green commonly explode in Midgard?_" Bjarke asked.

Kirsten's mouth quirked up on one side. "Not often, no." She concentrated. "I can...I can _feel_ him. Even remotely."

"Who?" someone asked.

"The Ethereal."

It was like staring at the sun.

"Can you tell us more about the room?"

The Muton looked around. "One main door. A second door, barricaded. The main door has what looks like a charge on it."

"So they're planning to take us with them. Great."

While Nilsson discussed it with Bradford, Kirsten wondered if the Muton would notice when she left. It wasn't like she had actually done anything, after all. Not like she had made its finger twitch.

Wait, could she make its finger twitch?

Yes, she could. In fact, she could make its hand move. She could make it adjust its footing. She could make it point the gun at the Ethereal and pull the trigger, only to watch the plasma _bounce_ off of some kind of force field. The Muton she was riding rocked back as some sort of force struck it, and then the Ethereal and its guards turned to face her. She could feel its **attention** focusing on her, like a spotlight -

So she shot the explosives.

It was a perfectly rational decision, she would later insist. The Ethereal was clearly too powerful for them to engage conventionally, so she might as well soften it up and try to take the guards out in the process.

When the psychiatrists asked her, she would prove unable to remember or explain why her mission recorder captured her muttering "yes," followed by, in Icelandic. "_Burn_."

She _did_ remember falling to the ground in tears a few seconds later, though.

-/-

Ragna stalked the halls of the fallen alien craft, with Bjarke at her heels, their presence hidden by her craft. She tried not to marvel at the strange lines, the unusual devices. Even stranger than what she had seen of Midgard already.

"I expected more of them," the larger Asgardian said. "I assume that any not outside of the ship were guarding their leader."

"Most likely."

The illusionist was not in a talkative mood.

Upon their arrival at the command center, Ragna used her short ranged scrying spell, projected the output to Bjarke. It showed them the slain bodies of the guards, and the wounded body of the alien commander. They cautiously poked their heads around the doorframe, carefully, lest they relieved of them. No such attack was forthcoming, and they relaxed, just a fraction.

"The Midgardians called them _Ethereals_, yes?" Bjarke asked.

"Yes...?"

"They seem quite tangible to me."

Ragna fought a smile. Failed. It felt wrong to be smiling right after Eirik -

No. Don't think about it.

Even weakened, she could still feel the _thing's_ power.

"Bjarke?" she said, without moving her lips, without a sound. "Our friend seems shy."

Her companion raised his hands, like he was opening an ungreased pair of doors, and _Pulled_. The creature's helm split apart, revealing grey, pallid skin, and dark, deepset eyes.

Ragna, entirely without volition, took a step back from the rush of energy. Less channeled than it had been, more raw. Its emotion was bleeding out.

Of course. If the helm was intended to direct their power, then it would have to contain it as well. The creature looked around, seeking a target. If it had time to focus-

"**Sleep**," she said.

It tensed (_her hands wanted to shake_), fought the spell (_she was better than this_), started to turn towards her (_how dare these worms_) -

Then Bjarke, from across the room, cuffed it to the floor.

"_**Sleep**_," Ragna repeated.

Bjarke's invisible hand was around its throat. Assuming it used the throat to breathe, of course.

Ragna backed up her spell with her own anger, rage, fear. "_**Sleep!**_"

The alien creature relaxed, finally, and Ragna let the tension drain out of her own shoulders.

"Do you think," Bjarke murmured, "that they will let us keep the head as a trophy?"

The other mage turned around to look at him. "Probably not."

"How about the helmet?"

-/-

The thing about the little chats with the "Exalted", thought the red-haired woman, was that it was the mental equivalent of wearing a hearing aid in a thunderstorm.

She flexed her wrist before reaching for the Hyperwave Beacon. Upon touching it, she got the psionic equivalent of elevator music; complete indifference. _Please hold, your call is not important to us in any way_. And she knew, she _knew_ they were waiting for her. Just another power play-

**The Asgardians. We were **_**not**_** informed.**

Just like every other time, the woman winced.

"Neither were we. The section of SHIELD dealing with Asgard is something of a...closed loop. We've been working on penetrating it from the XCOM si-"

**Inadequate**. Reluctance, indignation, thick layers of pride and ego on top. **One of us was captured. This was not part of the Plan. If interrogated…** The words trailed off into an impression of stormclouds on a distant horizon.

She felt hope, then, and quashed it, lest it leak through the connection. "How did they -"

**Irrelevant. There will be a response. You will assist.**

Uh-oh. "Me personally, or-"

**Your organization. Including the Enhanced.**

Smith licked her lips.

"We have a prototype ready for deployment. We...we'll need time to move our people into position."

A pause. **Do not disappoint us.**

They hung up, so to speak, and Smith immediately hissed through her teeth as the migraine hit her, bright lights blooming across her vision. She swore in five different languages before the pain abated, and then stared at the Beacon with gritted teeth, her hands curled into claws.

"I am," she declared to the empty room, "getting too old for this _scheisse_."

**-H-**

**The Seatbelts - "Tank! (Cowboy Bebop Theme)**

I've noticed that certain elements of this chapter resemble certain elements in Chapters 10 and 11 of Peptuck's "Vigil". This was entirely unintentional. The glove bit from Age of Ultron that'll be in Chapter 22? That's _totes_ intentional. And no, **I haven't seen it yet**. No spoilers, plz.

If you recall what First Class told us about Russian psychic research, you may be going "hey, wait a minute" right about now.

**Bought Down Low**: Killed or Captured an Ethereal.

_**Mens super materiem**_: Use psionic abilities in combat.

**POOR IMPULSE CONTROL**: Use Mind Control to force enemy into a suicide attack.

**Next time on Ferris**: Let's all go to a party!


	23. OMAKE: Band-aids don't fix bullet holes

**OMAKE: Band-aids don't fix bullet holes**

"So this is the new outfit?" Levin said.

The test version of the psi-undersuit was mostly dark purple, for some reason, with lighter areas all over. The standard carbon-fiber undersuit was a matte dull grey, so the angular lines of _this_ one were...emphasizing areas she wasn't sure she wanted emphasized.

Funny. She knew Levin had no interest in her, and she blushed anyway.

"Yes. And this-" she ran a hand over the device running around her neck "-is the new psi-amp."

"Made from real alien. I'm not sure why it took them so long to reverse-engineer it from the Mechtoids."

"Stark's team said they needed the Russian psychic research." She did a few experimental stretches.

"Can you move in that thing?"

"More or less," the Icelandic woman said. It only _felt_ like she was constantly being - how did the Americans put it? - "wedgied", that was the word.

Shiny held up his hands, and she dropped into a standard boxing stance. Left jab, left jab, right cross, then ducking as her partner made a telegraphed right hook. She bought up her right forearm to deflect his telegraphed left jab, using her left arm to trap his, gain control, bring him down-

"Very good," Levin said into the training mat. "Could you please let go of my arm?"

"Sorry."

"Well, we've just got one more part of the ensemble." Levin held out her psi-helmet.

The ex-cop frowned. "Wait. Something's wrong."

"What could possibly be wrong?" The Israeli was smiling widely. Somehow, he had changed from workout clothes to a standard undersuit.

The helmet's faceplate, designed to look like a skull, stared at her. "This...this isn't right. The helmet wasn't ready yet."

"Nonsense." Levin had gotten his rig on, and approached his protege. "It's right here, so it's clearly ready."

She backed away. "Shiny, stop, I don't-"

Her mentor grabbed her arm, and used the armor's strength to force her into the same hold she had gotten him in. Then he shoved the helmet on her's head.

There was nothing but blackness for a few seconds, blackness and the sound of her breathing. Then the helmet automatically sealed and booted up. She could feel the amp digging into her spine, wires twirling with nerves.

"There," Levin said, his head hanging limply, eyes glazed and gazing at nothing. "Now you don't have any excuse for not saving me."

"What?"

Levin's head fell off, and landed on the floor. "You're just like them now." His helmet's faceplate grinned at her, and the spot where the plasma bolt had struck him was still glowing in places. "I'm proud of you."

The young woman sank to her knees, and reached for his head.

With all four spindly, skeletal arms.

Kirsten Arnadottir woke up screaming.

**-X-**

**Taylor Swift - Bad Blood (feat. Kendrick Lamar)**

Yes, I wrote this omake just so I could show off the psi-armor design. (See the Spacebattles thread) And to explain where the psi-amp actually came from.


	24. 21 Clock's ticking

**21 - Clock's ticking, I just count the hours**

**-S-**

When May showed up, she found her friend preening in front of her mirror. Making sure her hair was good, her dress was straight, her makeup was proper, and generally acting like she was about to present herself for inspection by the Joint Chiefs.

"You know, I've seen tactical breaches that people fussed over less."

Eamon half-turned. "I just...what if I fail this evaluation?"

"You get to keep your current job. How horrifying."

He turned back to the mirror, and shifted Irene's voice to the cadences of that immortal songstress, Beyonce Knowles. "_Get my hair done, and my nails done too. A new outfit and Fendi shoes_."

May stared blankly. The corner of her lip twitched upward a little. "I don't follow rock music."

"Very funny."

"Actually, SHIELD is providing the shoes. And the dress." He frowned. "Morse isn't actually letting me see the shoes yet. I don't know why."

Irene's phone beeped. She glanced at it. "And that's my ride." She headed for the door.

"Irene?"

"Yeah?"

"Try not to die."

"Very funny."

-/-

The SHIELD holding room wasn't exactly something out of an IKEA catalog. There was a cot, a table, two chairs, and a hexagonal pattern on the walls. And also an Icelandic woman, but that wasn't part of the decor.

"Miss Arnadottir, please sit at the table."

Reluctantly, Kirsten opened her eyes, and did as the loudspeaker asked. She kept her eyes focused on the brushed-metal table, even as an agent came in, placed something on the table, and left.

"Was it good for you?" said Director Schmidt.

Kirsten's head jerked up. There in front of her was her boss. "How...?"

"Hologram. Was it good for you? Was the sex any good?"

The younger woman stared. Now that she was looking for it, she could see the seams, where the image didn't quite match up with the chair across from her, the way it looked...weird where it intersected the lights.

"Arnadottir?"

"Oh. Um, yes."

"Why'd you go off the reservation?"

Kirsten cocked her head.

"Why did you leave your escorts?"

The Icelander snorted. "They weren't very good."

"They were two SHIELD agents taking someone from their sister agency out for a round of drinks in Cardiff, after she looked at the place where her mentor was hurt. They didn't expect you to run off with the first cute smile you saw."

"Actually, he was the third."

Schmidt pinched the bridge of her nose. "Let's change tack. What did you drink?"

"What?"

"Do you remember what you had to drink?"

"I don't...why does it matter?"

"Because if you can't remember what you drank, then you can't remember whether you used Mind Control."

Something cold went down Kirsten's spine, and she sat up straighter. "I wouldn't...I couldn't _possibly_ use my special abilities to-"

Schmidt's image stared at her. Just stared. "Sure you could. You were drunk, remember? Couldn't even remember that you had Jack Daniels."

Quietly; "What's going to happen to me?"

Schmidt sighed, and stood. "That's a very good question." She made a slicing motion across her throat, and the feed cut out.

Leaving Kirsten Arnadottir sitting in an empty room with nothing but regrets for company.

Several hundred miles away, Schmidt stared at the chair where Arnadottir's image had been, her jaw set, teeth grinding just a little.

And then she went for a run.

-/-

The shoes were actually Manolo Blahniks. Somewhere in the back of their shared mind, Irene was disappointed by that.

The house was almost bright enough to be a navigation hazard to aircraft.

It was _the_ social event, the gossip rags had said, breathlessly. Anyone who was _everyone_ would be there. And while it wasn't precisely correct, the line of cars dropping people off at the front door - and the occasional helicopter - indicated that it was pretty darn close. Killian already had at least one big, fancy house, in Florida, but clearly thought that more was better.

As their SUV pulled up, Agent Morse noticed that Irene was staring. "Relax," she said. "You'll be fine."

The older woman kept staring out the window.

"Look. You just give them the same name and slightly different stories. Just enough to make someone think they're remembering incorrectly. Which makes you more interesting."

Irene turned away from the window. "Morse, what exactly is the point of this?"

"Officially, to assess your infiltration skills in the event that you're called into the field."

"And unofficially?"

"Unofficially, you need to get out more."

"Is that an order?"

"The brass is concerned that you aren't making constructive progress moving past Laura's death. After a bout of flirting with pretty much anything that moves, you tried to drown yourself in your work, only emerging for movie night."

Irene looked out the window again. "Which I'm _missing_, by the way."

"You haven't made any non-work contact with your old team. Even Tony's worried."

"Did he actually say so?"

"Irene, look at me."

She did.

Morse raised an eyebrow.

"Okay, stupid question."

Bobbi was wearing one of those dresses with dark shapes in the side to make you look slimmer, though hers was white and dark blue, rather than white and black. The center panel had a few dummy buttons on the left side near the white Bertha collar, and her hair was pulled into a bun with two chopstick-looking things thrust through it.

"About your glasses," Eamon said. "You _are_ aware that yellow shades were only in style ten years ago, right? Also, think we should get out now?"

"Give it a second. I'm your faithful assistant, you're going to have to improvise. And don't think we won't talk about this later." She fished a pair of yellow shades out of her purse and slid them onto her face. "Showtime."

-/-

"Was it worth it?"

Kelda looked up. "Pardon me?"

The quarters in the SHIELD base reserved for the Asgardians were quiet, most of the time. Kelda found it soothing. But now, an angry-eyed young mage was glaring at her with red-rimmed eyes, and speaking to her with a tone of voice that was certainly disrespectful.

So, Kelda decided, Magnhild was _probably_ angry.

"Was it worth it, Lady Kelda?" the younger mage repeated.

Kelda turned and faced Magnhild, bidding the healer sit. She took a moment to discreetly study the stiff line of her back, the stubborn set of her lips. She was spoiling for a fight, for something to lash out at.

Kelda's lips pursed, just for a second.

And the healer had, of course, targeted her superior. Perhaps the worst person on the base, were she not so patient.

"The fault is mine, I suppose."

Magnhild's jaw dropped open. "W-w-w-what?"

"We taught you much of magic, and little of war."

"I _know_ of war."

"You know of war _stories_, which are rather different. And as mages, you were more insulated from the reality that most."

A whisper, now. "What reality is that?"

"War is terrible, vicious, nasty, and generally merciless. Often on the victors as much as the defeated." She stared off into the middle distance. "And those tales of glorious battles...they leave out the...messy bits. What have you been doing these nights?"

"Pardon?"

"You haven't slept. And when you do, you see Eirik being hurt, over and over again, catapulting you to wakefulness."

"How did…" Magnhild stopped, and her lips pursed. "Who were they? Your first blood?"

Kelda smiled, sat up a little straighter. Her cadences and tone changed, and Magnhild's body relaxed. It knew a storyteller when it heard one.

"_Know that I, Lady Kelda, who is called now Stormrider, daughter of Brodag, was little more than a child when the marauders descended upon our village with the swiftness of a serpent's strike..._"

-/-

It wasn't so bad, really.

While Eamon wasn't all that experienced at all the angling, schmoozing, and gladhanding, Irene was a decorated veteran of countless academic functions and dinners. He drew on her experience, and tried not to think about what the nature of their relationship was. They'd both been interested in Laura, and while Irene had flirted with Fury, Eamon had felt nothing, even when he was in a brain that by rights _should_ be attracted to him.

The trick, as Irene's experience whispered to him, was to just put out that she was in metals and technology - which was technically correct - and that she was looking for investment opportunities, wink wink, nudge nudge.

There were, of course, security guards around, being conspicuously inconspicuous. Some were less professional than others, like the guy with a document tube slung over his shoulder flirting with a redheaded woman in glasses wearing a dress that screamed "I bought this with my boss's money". It seemed to be working; she laughed at something he said, and leaned toward him, her hand touching his sleeve.

In short order, several of the bigwigs had put out feelers. At least he thought they were feelers. Maybe they were just flirting, which was a different type of feeler entirely.

What would it be like, to juggle all these lies for days, months, years? It was easy for him to be Irene; he had access to her memories, her personality. But to make up a life out of thin air, then to pour yourself into it...would it eat you whole, if left long enough? Would you wake up one morning and look in the mirror and have no idea who you were?

Eamon shuddered internally, and drained the glass. In a subtle and ladylike manner, of course.

There was a speech from Stane, first apologizing for Killian himself not being there, and then it was mostly about announcing the partnership between AIM and Stark Industries, to which a good third of the people whipped out their smartphones, or had their assistants whip out theirs. Generic platitudes, thank everyone for coming, receive polite laughter graciously, leave the steps where he was holding forth, and that was it for his speech.

Unfortunately for Eamon, he noticed Stane glancing in his direction as Irene was chatting with some Italian countess, then stop for half a step before curving in his direction. Eamon made his excuses - with the _Contessa_ insisting that "Elena" _had_ to come and see her vineyards some weekend - and moved off at an angle.

"Seems like the businessman of the hour has taken an interest in me."

"Hostile?"

"I don't know."

Morse swore. "We have an alternate exfil set up through the kitchen. Failing that, side doors in the ground-floor study, onto the lawn, then hook right and head down to the beach. The car can take the sand."

"Why didn't you tell me about this earlier?"

"And give you a chance to sneak out the back?"

And then suddenly Stane was in front of her. He gave her a curious smile that even reached his intent, ice-chip blue eyes. "I don't believe we've met, Miss...?"

"Fontaine. Elena Fontaine." He deliberately bled a little of his own Irish accent into his speech, to seem more 'exotic', harder to pin down.

"Ah." The executive inclined his head towards Irene's recent conversational partner. "Any relation...?"

"No, just a coincidence. She's in wine, I'm in metals and electronics."

Stane's face went still, and he said an entirely different sort of "ah". Eamon wasn't sure if it was angry or resigned.

"Your boss," he continued, glancing at another redhead in the crowd, this one with freckles, "doesn't need to check up on me."

Uh oh.

"Thaaat's Cynthia Smith," Morse said. "Majority shareholder in Lerna International, which...has been getting increasingly chummy with AIM lately. Interesting, but not actionable."

"You look tired, Mr. Stane," Eamon said lightly. "Not getting enough sleep?"

A snarl flashed on Stane's face, then he got himself under control. His smile seemed strained now. "I'm sure we can continue this discussion upstairs."

"I'm sure we can. I'll be along shortly."

Stane stared at her for a second, then walked off. Irene's smile faded, and as Eamon pretended to take a sip, he murmured. "You got that?"

"I sure did," Morse said. "Probably a good idea to get more information. But have you considered the idea that he might have just invited you to sleep with him?"

The partygoers watching Irene noticed her suddenly going white. Or at least paler. "Uh-"

-/-

"Oh, you have _got_ to be kidding me."

-/-

"Hello, Wilson Pool Care and Funeral Services, how may I direct your call?"

"Wade, see the blonde in the blue and white dress wearing yellow glasses?"

"Yep."

"And an older woman -"

"The hot, non-specifically ethnic MILF that came in with the blonde? Yeah, I _definitely_ noticed."

"I want you to keep an eye on them. Make sure they don't get into trouble."

"So you want me to follow two attractive women for the rest of the night, on top of my normal security duties."

"Yes."

"Is this supposed to be the carrot or the stick?"

-/-

"Want something to drink?" Stane asked.

"No thanks."

The office they were in rode the line between tasteful and flashy. It was a marvel of very expensive understatement.

"Isn't that Killian's liquor?"

"He's not going to miss it." The oligarch dropped - and there really was no other word for it - into the chair behind the desk. "What do you want now?"

"To see how you're doing. We're concerned about the psychological stresses our partnership may be placing on you -"

Stane interrupted her with a snort. "Yeah. 'Partnership'. That's one word for it."

He set his glass on the desk and leaned forward. "It would help if I had some assurance I wouldn't be hung out to dry when the time comes."

A knocking at the door.

"Come in!"

In came that one guard with the tube on his back. "Sir, I'm sorry to interrupt, but this woman isn't actually on the guest list."

Well, crap.

"No...no, she wouldn't be."

"We have to detain her," Wilson said, advancing a few steps. Behind him was another security guard, albeit one dressed slightly more traditionally.

"That won't be necessary."

"Procedure, sir,," said Wilson, grabbing Irene's arm.

_Okay, Wilson used his right hand, and he's probably right-dominant. Which means his holster was on the left side of his chest, which means he can't draw his gun and hold me at the same time -_

"Irene?" Morse said. "I head. I'm coming upstairs now."

Wilson frowned, and tilted his head to the side. "You want me to-are you sure? Fine." He turned to face the other guard. "Change of plans."

"Change to -"

Depending on which breathless cable documentary estimates you use, the trained human elbow can generate somewhere between dozens and hundreds of pounds of force. This was, a baritone narrator promised, sufficient to deliver a blow that would stun, if not knock out the target entirely.

Wade Wilson did not have a trained elbow. He had a regular elbow, which was admittedly part of an arm trained on other martial arts, but on the whole, he preferred to use something bigger, longer, and harder when he got into a scuffle.

Still, the amount of force he generated was more than enough to be a bother if he directed it at a "soft target".

Such as Vega's throat.

His larynx never stood a chance.

Morse burst in, went "Lady, I'm -"

The scene that greeted her was one of a bald zillionaire and middle-aged woman of ambiguous race staring open mouthed at a white guard who was sadly watching his Hispanic colleague sink to the ground.

"Alas, poor Vega," He said, looking up at the SHIELD agent. He held up his hands, made a gesture. "Fantastic rear. I mean, just…_unf_."

Everyone just stared, until Stane sputtered "Wilson! What the - you just killed your own man!"

"Not yet. Give it a few seconds." He held a hand to his ear theatrically. "Annnd _now_ I've killed him." He turned to Bobbi. "You're Agent Morse?"

"Uh..."

"It's okay. My handler authorized me to break cover."

"Wait, handler? You're an _asset_? Who is it?"

"A Level 7 agent," said the voice in Bobbi's earpiece, "who is kind of pissed that you stumbled into the middle of her operation."

"Can you give me some confirmation?"

As it happened, none of the three non-Bobbi people in the room had seen a full-body clench before. Even Wilson was more of the bowel-loosening type.

"Wilson?" Irene asked, "Wade Wilson? Canadian?"

"Yeah...have we met? Because I'm pretty sure I'd remember."

"I've...heard of your exploits."

"Look, that was legal in Manitoba, and those twins-"

"If I may interrupt," said a voice at the door.

The woman standing there had short red hair, freckles, and a faintly amused smile. She could've been any age between her early twenties to late thirties, and ran Lerna International. Oddly enough, she was holding her heels in her hand; had she just run up the stairs?

"Miss Smith!" Wilson said brightly. "I can explain. This is not what it looks like."

At the same time, Stane said "Smith, mind telling me what's going on? First your girl here wants to talk to me, and then next thing I know the head of the Aegis detail is talking about 'breaking his cover' and punching his partner in the throat."

"Uh, actually, it was more of an elbow-"

"Wilson, you're fired," Smith said. "You won't be getting any references."

"Well, I guess it's back to Tim's," the Canadian replied. "Don't you want to hear my side of the story?"

"Oh, don't worry, we'll get back to you. What's currently on the agenda is these two gatecrashers, and why one is pretending to be with me."

She gave Irene a clinical once over.

"You don't look like the espionage type," she said. "But then again, the best ones seldom do. Wait..." She thought for a second. "Miss...Starkos, I presume?"

Irene blinked. "Who?"

"Oh, come now! Middle-aged, ambiguously brown, wears glasses, mature figure, I've seen the descriptions. But I am disappointed. I'd think someone of your intellectual capacity would come up with something better than that."

Eamon felt a weight leave his shoulders. Smith already knew who Irene was, so he didn't need to pretend any more. That simplified matters.

"There's an engineering principle called 'keep it simple, stupid'. Turns out it's a pretty good rule of thumb for life in general."

"Indeed." Smith turned to Morse. "And _you_. That earbug is very clever. Most people would not have noticed it even under normal circumstances, much less when you were running past."

"Are you saying she's a spy?" Stane asked?

"No, I'm saying they're _all_ spies."

Eamon watched Wilson's face go carefully blank and neutral. "So...what's the plan?"

"I think we're all going to stay here, and wait for the rest of Wilson's colleagues. Pardon, ex-colleagues. And then we'll have a nice, long chat."

"Sorry, I wasn't talking to you."

Wilson reached into his coat.

By the time his gun was out, Smith had already thrown her shoes at him.

-/-

And so, Stane and Eamon got to watch an executive fight a highly trained mercenary and a senior SHIELD agent.

The battle was almost comically one-sided.

She smiled the entire time.

The first clue was when the red pumps hit Wilson's gun hand at an appreciable fraction of the speed of "uh-oh", knocking it askew as the redhead blurred across the room. Her left hand grabbed his right wrist and shoved it to the side, against the wall. Her right came up to clutch at his throat-

Which was when Morse whipped the chopsticks out of her hair, extended them with a flick of her wrists, and brought the batons down on Smith's right forearm.

Smith deflected the blow, swatting both of Morse's arms into each other. Wilson dropped his gun, caught it in his left hand, pointed it at her gut, and pulled the trigger. She twisted away at the last second, and the 9mm bullet only scored a path through her very fancy dress. Her right arm curled around his left, and she pulled her arm along it, stripping the gun from him in one smooth motion, bringing a knee up into his stomach, spinning to her left and launching a staggering low kick at Morse's shin, then danced away from both of them.

Then she ripped the slide off the pistol with her bare hands.

"Whoops!" she said, and shrugged. "Butterfingers."

Eamon pointed Killian's gun at her and fired.

Someone with as many enemies as Killian, he had reasoned, might not rely on just guards. He had shoved Stane aside, opened the top right drawer, and then felt around until he found the Beretta taped to the underside of the desk's surface.

After that, it was just a matter of _missing completely_ as Smith jerked to her right.

Which was followed in the programme by the redhead convulsing suddenly and then, finally, collapsing.

Irene, Morse, and Wilson stared at the woman. And then, as if drawn by magnets, they turned to the doorway, where a slim hand with a gold bracelet was apparent.

A very familiar bracelet, one that looked like several cylinders in a ring. Two of those cylinders each had a lead going from them to the prongs in Smith's body that Eamon's target fixation was just now letting him notice.

"Well!" said the woman the hand belonged to, as she entered the room. "I'd say this was a _catastrophe_, but I don't want to insult natural disasters."

She was red-haired, much like Smith, except without the freckles. A belt made of gold disks was around her waist. Come to think, hadn't she been flirting with Wilson earlier?

Wait. Wait a second.

"Natalie, what...what's going on?" Stane said. Eamon kind of felt sorry for him. Not the whole terrorist-supplying murderer thing, but having things spin out of control on his big day.

"Mr. Stane, I lied about my references. Wilson, I told you to _neutralize_ Vega-"

"Punching someone in the larynx isn't an exact science, and -" he kicked the body "- he's pretty neutral."

"Morse, I can't think of how many procedures you violated just to get here."

Bobbi, if it were possible, cringed even harder. "Ma'am."

"Miss Starkos-"

"If I had known I was going to walk into an undercover operation, _Natasha_, I would've worn nicer shoes."

The "Black Widow" paused. "Ah. Just as quick on the uptake as your file says. Wilson worked for Aegis Security. I'm Stane's personal assistant. Both have increasingly worrying ties to HYDRA, through Smith here. Needless to say, that's not her real name. I don't think we can restrain her, not if she's Enhanced or Gifted."

"So, what do we do with her?"

Widow frowned. "Irene, can you get the balcony doors?"

-/-

Bradford hadn't exactly been surprised when a blonde in tight running clothes wet with sweat with walked into his room and started ranting about XCOM's prodigal daughter.

"-She doesn't even want to own up to it!" said Schmidt, as she paced. Her subordinate had been working at his desk when she entered, and was now caught in that awkward state of not knowing whether to stand or sitting back down.

"He just broke up with a man, but even SHIELD can't be sure he's gay. Maybe he likes both. Maybe he usually likes men, but made an exception. And even if he was bi or something, that doesn't mean he actually wanted to sleep with her." She cupped her face in her hands, and declared in a muffled voice "This entire situation is FUBAR."

"So now what?"

"I've got a meeting with one of the psychiatrists in -" she checked her Timex "- thirty minutes. Then I need to talk to someone about getting that shrink a ride to Wales-"

"Director, I don't think this is going to stop anytime soon."

"What's not going to stop?"

Bradford made a spreading gesture with his hands. "This. People with special powers. We're making them, and then what do we do when the fight's over? Do they just...go home?"

He sat down on his bed.

"I used to be a SEAL, Paula. We saw plenty of guys who never made it home. Their bodies made it, sure, but...if you looked in their eyes, there was _nothing there_. Sometimes a soldier goes home and eats their gun, or they hurt other people. Or both. What happens when they can make bullets curve away from them, like Maxime? Or kill things with their mind, like Frost?"

"I know about shell shock. I get it." Schmidt sighed. "And we'll have to think about that problem at some point. But, getting back to Arnadottir, even if we _could_ prove she did it, what would she even be charged with? Sexual touching via psychic powers?"

"You mean rape."

"I mean sexual touching. I looked up the UK laws."

Bradford frowned. "Really? Do they think women can't hold a man down?"

"What, I couldn't slip you a roofie? Or order you to sleep with me? Or -"

"Just ask?"

Schmidt froze.

It took a few seconds for Bradford to register what had come out of his mouth, and he found, oddly enough, that he didn't regret it one bit. It was out there, they could do something about it.

Even if that something was fire him.

"I..." Paula licked her lips, took a few steps back. "I w...I think I should go."

"Do you _want_ to go?"

His boss' hand found the door. She was blushing. "I'm _going_ to go," she said, more firmly.

David stared at the door for a while after she left, then flopped backwards onto the bed.

What was that Kipling line?

"_Follow the dream, and always the dream, and only the dream_."

Sounded about right.

-/-

Smith woke up, and immediately tried not to breathe.

This was because her enhancements sadly did not include gills.

Also, she hated the taste of chlorine.

She relaxed, got her bearings. Eager hands reached for her and pulled her out of the pool.

Her dress was simply _ruined_. It wasn't like she couldn't afford more, but still, a perfectly good dress destroyed by a bunch of spies, two of which had slipped right under her nose.

"Phone," she said, and one of the guards slapped his into her hand. "Thank you. Secure the grounds."

She dialed another from memory.

"Strucker? I've been turned into a very wet distraction. If they get away with Stane, we'll need to move up the schedule."

"To when?"

"Right now. Or as close as we can get. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to change."

If it had been ten years earlier, she would've snapped the phone shut dramatically. Pressing a little red button on a touchscreen just didn't have the same _oomph_ to it.

And everyone was staring at her.

She spread her arms. "Would you believe that this is only the _third_ craziest party I've been to?"

-/-

"Find my office all right?" Schmidt said, a half-smile on her lips.

The psychiatrist smiled back at her. "Eventually."

Schmidt's smile faded. "I'm just going to cut to the chase. What can you tell me about Arnadottir's state of mind?"

"When I said she was unfit for duty, I based it on the effects of her dangerously codependent relationship with Levin."

"Elaborate."

"He's become something of a father or brother figure to her. She doesn't have to worry about romantic entanglements from his end -"

"But it does make her more likely to be traumatized when he's hurt." Her tone was distant, like she was remembering something. "Of course, if she has any romantic desire for him -"

"She may have expressed it by sleeping with someone who looks like him, yes." He studied her for a second. "Have you studied psychology?"

"I dabbled."

"Still, this is all just speculation unless I can talk with her in pers -"

The screen in Schmidt's office blinked twice, then switched to an image of a bald man in shadows.

"Councilman!" Schmidt said, standing up quickly. "Sir, the room isn't secure -"

"_Director,_" said the Shadow man, his voice like gravel.

"Sir?"

"_We have decided to terminate the XCOM project..._"

The psychiatrist watched Schmidt sag a little, before composing herself. "What?"

"_The inability of this project to maintain the support of several council members has greatly reduced the effectiveness of both entities. This undertaking was the product of an ill-conceived plan; a series of simple misunderstandings, met with an… overzealous response._"

He knew the numbers as well as she did. France hadn't liked SHIELD's heavy-handedness with Maxime, Australia was paralyzed - some said dying - by a rampant virus that was also affecting parts of Asia as well, and Venezuela was eroding the Council's South American support.

But the Director would refuse to accept it, refuse to believe that it was over. And sure enough, she went "Please, I just need a little more -"

"_Rogers,_" said the Councilman.

Schmidt stiffened. "What?"

"_Run_."

The call ended.

The blonde woman just stared at the screen for a few seconds. "_Jocasta-_"

"As far as I can tell, that was a genuine call," the AI responded.

There was a click.

Schmidt turned, to find the psychiatrist aiming a gun at her. He shrugged, with one shoulder.

"I was never _really_ on your side."

**-H-**

**Kanye West - "Power"**

I checked, and it seems I've never actually mentioned that the Director is played by Alaina Huffman. I could've sworn I had back in Arc 1. Weird.

Deadpo - I mean, _Wade Wilson_ is still played by Ryan Reynolds, because _I literally cannot imagine anyone else in the role_.

**Next time on Ferris**: Someone uses the word "contingency".


	25. 22 Darkness from above

**22 Great clouds roll over the hills, bringing darkness from above**

-S-

The handgun that Bradford had produced out of nowhere smashed into Hanson's nose, knocking him clear out of his chair.

"They can't close the hangar doors, sir!" someone called. "Looks like mechanical sabotage!"

Bradford closed his eyes. How had he _missed_ this?

"How's that Security team doing?"

"They can't get a snake-cam through the door, sir."

"We may have made it _too_ secure."

"Not _now_, Jo." Out of the corner of his eye, Bradford saw BaseSec finally entering Mission Control. He took a step back from Hanson.

"It was my son," the tech muttered, touching his face. It came away red. "They said they'd kill my son."

What if it had been him? Would he have done the same? If someone has held a gun to his mother, or brother, or Paula-

Oh.

Right.

"Any luck getting through to SHIELD?"

"Nothing, sir. Landline, radio, satellite, any of them."

The security team arrived, and Bradford holstered his weapon as they laid hands on Hanson.

"Do we at least know whose end the problem is on?"

Moretti turned away from the main display, which was showing several red dots converging on XCOM Germany. "Worst case scenario? Both."

-/-

"Hamilton, you don't have to do this," Schmidt said.

"I really do. And please, don't try anything."

"You think HYDRA values you, but it doesn't." She leaned forward. "_Everyone_ is disposable to them.

"And you're any better? Throwing away the lives of good men and women against an enemy that doesn't want to fight?"

The blonde woman raised an eyebrow. "They're not doing a very good job of showing it."

"They knew, from the start, that humanity would need to be pacified first. Organized. Before we could accept their gifts."

"You tried that the first time. Didn't work."

"Times change."

"So when does your backup arrive?"

Dr. Hamilton looked at his watch theatrically. "Good question."

-/-

They came in through the back door.

The auxiliary entrance to XCOM HQ was covered by a seemingly ordinary warehouse. After the initial attack, both it and the front door had been...reinforced.

This left the Security troops with little to do but watch and wait, locked and loaded.

They didn't have to wait long.

Jo reported someone destroying the perfectly ordinary security cameras in the warehouse, followed by trying the call button and waiting patiently, followed by forcing the doors of the elevator open, followed by them hauling the elevator up the shaft by the cable. Probably a Muton. Of course, if they actually tried to ride it down, the repulsor feedback charges would turn them to mulch.

After a few minutes, Jocasta said that the elevator was coming down, at great speed, and the brakes were refusing to engage. Nor were the charges activating. In fact, as far as the pressure sensors could tell, there was no one insi-

The elevator car hit the bottom of the shaft with a tremendous bang, instantly followed by a much larger bang, one which nearly blew the elevator doors off at the bottom of the shaft.

One of the new hires, an American man named Jack Estrada, raised an X-ray scanner that XCOM had borrowed from SHIELD.

"Elevator's destroyed," she reported, somewhat obviously, and panned the scope upward. "Wait...he's coming do-"

There was another thump.

"They...jumped down the shaft, setting everything off," Jo said crisply.

"Sounds like my last Saturday night," someone quipped, sending general merriment around the room.

Estrada frowned. "They just...tanked it?"

"It appears so."

The scope, incredibly, showed the figure behind the doors rising to their feet. They appeared to have metal components in their clothes, possibly body armor or tools-

The German's view was blocked as several small, fast-moving objects came down the shaft. He looked up, to find a bunch of small quadrotor drones flitting through the space between the battered doors and the frame.

"Jo-"

"On it," said the AI, and the room's turrets opened up. They did their best, honestly, but there were just too _many_ of the little pests, even before they started exploding.

Estrada, like any experienced counterterrorist, immediately ducked and covered at the sound. He had enough time to wonder if they had come with the bombs, or if the attacker had scrounged them from the elevator before there was a sound an awful lot like someone kicking a pair of hardened elevator doors open.

He peeked over the crate he was using for cover, just in time to see a dark figure leap out of the firestorm his remaining teammates were pouring into the shaft. It landed on a Korean man named Park and rode his body to the floor, breaking his neck without even looking at him. Then he ducked out of sight - with Park's weapon - and called "we can do this the easy way or the fun way!"

In response, a grenade exploded near him. In response to the response, he tossed three of Park's grenades back towards the soldiers, forcing them to scramble out of cover, and he took three laser quick shots, all of which hit. Probably not lethal, not with the armor they were wearing.

Then he looked in Jack's direction, and he ducked back behind the crate, swearing mentally over and over. Roughly a second later, he felt the impact as something heavy landed on the crate-

It was _him_.

He was dark-skinned, probably Black, with a shaved head. His eyes were _glowing_ like the embers of a fire, and he had some sort of...implants. Jack could tell because one of the attacks had gotten through, flaying his cheek open, and there was a gleam of metal inside. The flesh was knitting back together even as he watched, and he didn't seem overly concerned as Estrada slowly bought his rifle to bear, casually removing his ruined helmet and grinning down at the American.

"Fun way it is," the Sentinel said.

-/-

If anyone else had been in the room, they might've noticed that Hamilton was getting more and more antsy as he heard the muffled sounds of the ongoing battle.

She could've sworn her office was better soundproofed than that.

"I don't suppose you could've smuggled in a bigger gun?"

The psychiatrist focused on her. "What?"

"I assume you were limited. What with the searches when people reenter the base. That pretty much just leaves medical supplies, and those are checked too."

Her captor's jaw was slowly dropping open.

"I assume the individual components were hidden in incoming heavy machinery, and you searched it once they arrived in medical, where the cameras don't cover."

"How..."

"Concealment was a factor, so it had to be small. A gun that size you could hide almost anywhere."

"How...how do you know all that?"

Schmidt shrugged. "We've been here for a while. I've been thinking. It's often easy to figure out what happened if you have all the relevant facts."

"What _are_ you? Why was most of your profile redacted? Were you in intelligence?"

"...I'm complicated. Hand me that."

Hamilton looked at her, then at the little metal wedge with her name on it, sitting on her desk.

Schmidt rolled her eyes and raised her hands. "I'm planning to throw it at you. Just fork it over."

The psychiatrist aimed his gun as he shoved the little triangular block toward her.

"Thank you," she said, as she picked it up. "Now, this piece of metal tells us several things. It tells us my name is Paula Schmidt. It tells us I have responsibility for a lot of people. But most importantly right now, it tells us that I weighted it with lead."

Hamilton blinked.

And then something hit his hand, knocking his gun away. Immediately followed a pair of sensible, professional shoes slamming into his chest, knocking him backwards.

And then he was on the floor. His gun, he had to-

Schmidt's foot came down hard on his wrist. Something went crack.

"I'm pretty sure that was your ulna."

Hamilton was busy clutching his wrist and screaming.

"Or maybe it was your radius. Or both!"

Somewhere in the pain was the thought that this was nothing he had ever been trained for. And neither was having a tall, blond woman kneel on his chest and wrench his mouth open.

"Now, is it still behind the left incisor...no...no...ah, _there_ it is."

His poison tooth!

"Wait..."

She got a good grip on the tooth. "Sorry, Mr. Hamilton, but that'll have to come out."

-/-

"Miss Starkos?"

Eamon blinked, and looked over at her phone.

"Miss Starkos, there are two gentlemen approaching your room."

"Who are you, and how did you activate my phone?"

A snort of amusement. "Did you really thinK SHIELD would issue you something like this without a backdoor?"

"No, I guess not." He sat up. "So, two men. Why should I care?"

"Their credentials say they're veteran agents with SHIELD. Said credentials were issued an hour ago. Before that, there's no record of them."

Uh-oh.

"They claim they're on a mission from Director Fury to remove you for debriefing. I strongly doubt that."

"He would've come himself, and called ahead so I could pucker properly." Eamon stood up. "Are they armed?"

"Yes. I've summoned assistance."

"Crap." Beat. "Is Agent Garrett in on it?"

"Unknown."

Eamon closed Irene's eyes. "I need a weapon."

"I believe you have one."

Oh, right. How could he forget?

Someone banged on the door. "Liason Starkos? A moment, please?"

"I'll...I'll be right out!" Where did he put it, where did he put it... He yanked open his closet. Ah-

"She's not coming out," said one agent to the other, who nodded. It was time to override.

"Pardon me, boys."

They turned. It was an Asian woman in her 40s, wearing a leather jacket.

"Is Irene coming out? We were supposed to go out for drinks ten minutes ago."

The two men are far too professional to glance at each other. "The director wants her."

"Really? Because I can't do this without my wingman."

"In this one-horse town?"

"When you're my age, you take what you can get." Head tilted, eyes narrowed. "Ooor...we could just cut out the middleman." She reached out and ran a hand over the nearer agent's arm. "How 'bout it?"

This time, they did look at each other. One was smiling. "You're on your own, pal."

His partner rubbed his eyes. "Look, Miss.-"

"May."

"Miss May. We're just here to do a job, and-"

Irene's door opened.

Behind it was a red and silver suit, with glowing eyes.

May rolled her eyes as the two agents went for their guns. "Finally."

Behind his faceplate, Eamon grinned and warmed up his palm repulsors. "Kept you waiting, huh?"

-/-

Masters and his team were through the door about a half second after their boss called "clear!"

Only to immediately stop dead and stare at the unconscious Dr. Hamilton.

"Ma'am, did you even _need_ us?" someone said.

The corner of her lip twitched. "Well, _someone's_ got to carry him out of here. I'm a busy woman. Jo, sitrep?"

"I'm afraid you're about to get busier, Director."

She then proceeded to sum up the situation while Masters winced internally and his team secured the spy.

Schmidt nodded, from in front of the safe. She pulled out a shoulder harness and donned it. Followed by a gunbelt with a much larger gun. Then she reached in again, for something on the upper shelf, and paused, a weird look on her face.

"Ma'am? We need to go."

"I know." She pulled the object out in one quick motion. It was large, and circular, and covered with butcher paper, and it stuck neatly onto her back.

Or, more accurately, Masters realized, the magnetic harness concealed in the shoulder holster.

"All right," she said. "Let's roll."

-/-

All in all, the evening was going quite well, Quill thought.

He and his wingman - who had _finally_ stopped complaining about being called "Goose" - had somehow managed to attract the attention of two lovely American ladies, and one was sitting on his lap, apparently minding not a bit the WW2 helmet and goggles he had nicked off the wall.

"So then I say to Rhodes-" Quill proclaimed to a red-tinted world.

"Here it comes," Summers said.

"I said-" Quill stiffened his back, in the manner of a subordinate saying something unpleasant to someone infinitely his superior. "'Sir, I don't think that was his _wife_.'"

The ladies laughed. Corsair, even though he had heard the joke before, laughed too. The leggy brunette in his lap wriggled in a very distracting way, and he put his hand around her waist. Just for her safety, of course. Wouldn't want her to fall off.

"So what are you flyboys doing here?" said the one snuggling up to Summers. Shani or Shana or something.

"Technical conference," said the Alaskan.

The decidedly non-Royal Air Force had wanted their advice about fighting the X-rays, both in the air and on the ground. XCOM had given their pilots SERE training, but it was kind of different when you were facing Little Grey Men. Or Big, Pink Men, in green armor, with serious 'roid rage issues.

"There was lots of talk of thrust ratios and angles of attack, all very scientific." Quill raised a mug of the sad excuse for lager the Americans had, took a sip, managed not to grimace.

"I'm sure I'd love to hear more," the brunette said, leaning into him, "someplace _private_."

Well.

Miss Quill hadn't raised a fool.

At which point the blonde's phone vibrated. She somehow shimmied it out of her extremely tight pants, looked at the screen, said "Iolas Mort" and suddenly there was a gun in Summers' face, and his.

Not _again_.

"Gentlemen!" Shani announced, "we weren't kidding about wanting to get you alone."

It was strange, really, the way that silence flowed out from their little scene, like a stone dropping into a pool of water.

"Oh no, don't get up," said the brunette to the bar's patrons. And to the barkeeper; "don't bother, I already unloaded it. Still, Mr. Diaz, I'd appreciate it if you kept your hands off your Remington for the time being."

Diaz stopped reaching for his shotgun, and raised his hands slowly.

"Jehus, bring the van around," Shani said, presumably into a concealed radio. It was an open question as to where, just like the question of where they had been keeping the guns.

"That's right," said the blonde, waving her gun across Corsair's body. This, unfortunately, gave the pilot a good look at her gun.

Her little two-shot pocket pistol.

Without the hammer cocked.

Quill saw his wingman's brow furrow, and his hands come up. A few seconds later, Summers had a brand new pistol, and Shani in his lap with a gun pressed to her head.

There was a click as he pulled back on the hammer.

The brunette didn't even flinch.

"Amateurs," she said, without moving the gun a millimeter from Quill's haid. "What are you gonna do?"

"Put down the gun," Summers growled.

"You first."

"Let's put it to a vote," Quill muttered. He leaned back, and asked the brunette; "Just one question; did you _ever_ like my jokes?"

"Not really."

"That's all I wanted to hear."

And then he headbutted her.

-/-

"That wasn't Fury," Irene said, as they approached the corner.

"What?" May said. "Then who was it?"

"I apologize for the deception, Agent," said a Frasier Crane-accented voice in her earpiece, "but there was no time to waste on explanations."

"First, I'm not an Agent. Second, who _are_ you?"

"Like he said when I asked," Irene said, "is SHIELD's Virtual Intelligence for Strategic Information, Oversight, and Networking."

May, being a government employee, parsed the acronym immediately. "Cute. So, Vision, why haven't I heard of you?"

Both the AI and the woman in the iron suit chorused "Level 7."

"I _am_ level 7."

"You _were_," Vision corrected, gently.

May's lips pursed. "Hm. Why do you have a power suit?"

"Parting gift from Ton-"

"This is Agent John Garrett," said the loudspeakers. "Liason Starkos and Agent May are compromised. You are authorized to use all necessary force in detaining them."

"For-" May closed her eyes, reined her temper in, and said through gritted teeth "I assume this is why we're creeping around backstage?"

"Correct, Agent May. I've been monitoring his comms traffic. That's how I learned about the plot in the first place."

"And why couldn't Fury contact us himself?"

"He's...otherwise occupied."

"Does it involve gunfire?"

"Not yet."

-/-

Fury dropped the ice cubes into his glass of Jack, and came out from behind the bar. He walked to his three subordinates, and stood in front of them.

Bobbi Morse, Wilson, and Romanoff stared straight ahead. If she focused really hard on that spot on the bulkhead, she could almost ignore the clouds slowly moving by outside.

"Sitwell," Fury said.

The shaven-headed Agent over by the wall stood up a little straighter. "Sir?"

"Did you _know_ about Agent Morse's little...'training exercise'?"

"No, sir."

The plane shook slightly as it hit an air pocket.

"That's what I thought. Now, I'll have a word with Irene later, but, I'm very interested in your thought process, Agent Romanoff."

Out of the corner of her eye, Bobbi saw the Look Wilson was giving Fury - or more precisely, Fury's body - and wondered if she could tackle him to the ground before she said something stupid.

Someone's phone beeped.

"Sitwell, you're ruining the mood, here."

"Sorry, sir. Iolas Mort."

At which point half the agents in the room pulled their guns and pointed them at the other half. Including the ones behind Bobbi and the other two. _What the_-

Fury looked around, and took a sip of his Scotch.

"You know, Sitwell, if you wanted a raise, all you had to do was ask."

"Natasha," Sitwell said. "Drop everything. Slowly. You too, Wilson."

_What am I, chopped liver?_ Morse thought.

Wilson dumped both his pistol and his "document tube" at his feet, without a single word. Romanoff unlatched her bracelets and let them fall to the floor.

"Belt too."

"Really?" The redhead held her belt out in front of her. "What do you expect a girl to do without her best belt?"

"I'm sure you'll make do."

Wilson flexed his neck.

Romanoff sighed, and dropped her belt.

The flashbang went off as soon as it hit the floor.

Fury had already been moving, of course. He jerked his head away from Sitwell's gun, even as Wilson kicked his own pistol into the air. Sitwell's gun went off as Romanoff dropped to the floor and swept the legs out from the traitor behind her. And Morse-

Well, Morse was blind and deaf, because _no one had told her about the flashbang_.

She was dimly aware that someone grabbed her hand and pulled, but by the time she could see what was going on, she was in a passageway with a closed door, along with Widow, Wilson, and Fury, who was clutching his face.

"Director!" Morse said. "Are you okay?"

He took his hands away, and looked up, and _what happened to his left eye_?

Her ears were still ringing, but she could guess what he was saying to her, just from the half-smile, from the way he lips were moving.

_Not...exactly_.

-/-

**22 B will be posted shortly.**


	26. 23 This is gospel

This is actually 22 B. I just didn't want the chapter titles to spoil it.

* * *

><p>All in all, Agent Daisy Johnson would've preferred a less...interesting first field test of her gifts.<p>

The traitor raised his gun at the other end of the hallway, and Johnson slammed her palm against the wall. The vibration made the plaster next to Sorenson's head erupt, throwing off his aim. The shot went wide as Daisy dropped to the ground, planted both hands on the tile, and **pushed**.

A quirk of her powers involved the transmission medium. While she couldn't effectively send her vibrations through air, and was so-so with liquids, she was really, really good at propagating them through solids.

Like, for example, the floor.

And through the floor, the bones of Sorenson's feet.

It wasn't something he noticed right away, of course. He tried to bring his bun back on target, and then realized that he was tilting to the side. Then he tried to steady his aim, and the pain hit.

He was screaming by the time he hit the ground.

For a second or two. And then there was a wet noise, followed by silence.

"I-I could've taken him," someone said from behind Johnson. Wanda peeked out from the corner.

"So could I," said the agent, moving towards the body and stripping the vest. And he had ammo too. She slid a full clip into her weapon, and handed Wanda the vest and Sorenson's pistol. "Sorry about the splatter."

The Frenchwoman only flinched a little. "You forgot the ammo."

"No, I didn't. I've seen your shooting. But it might be good for bluffing." She stood. "You know, the last time my coworkers tried to kill me, it was _metaphorical_." Beat. "'Course, the job was doing that anyway." Beat. "I was actually _happy_ when they shut down the call center and outsourced everything to Myanmar. Let's roll."

Wanda tried not to look at the body as she stepped over it.

"Did you know him?"

Nate Sorenson. JROTC, went to Brown on a football scholarship, majored in communications. Could fix a fault in a Quinjet's a comms board with a paper clip and elbow grease. Jewish, Jersey, spent a year in Japan before SHIELD tapped him. Owed her twenty bucks - or a favor- from cards.

Maybe, just maybe, his poker face had been better than she had thought.

"No," said Johnson. "I didn't know him at all."

-/-

Joanna Schmidt woke up.

She was lying on the floor.

It was not a very nice floor, being part of a rather utilitarian scientific facility that had been transformed into an even more utilitarian military facility. It was designed to keep a grip on your feet, not to take a nap.

The blood didn't help.

Nor did Tancredi's dead, sightless eyes.

She wanted to do something about that, she really did, but her body didn't seem to be particularly obedient at the moment. It was even making this irritating ringing noise in her ears. Her hearing wasn't completely gone, as she could still make out the faint sounds of gunfire and laserfire.

They must've come through the ventilation, or maybe the old maintenance tunnels from the research facility the base had been built on. She'd have to talk to David about patching that security hole.

You know, if she survived.

Someone entered her view. It was Masters, reaching for her back. She wanted to say "no, don't", but didn't quite manage it. Maybe he noticed something anyway, because he said "I'll bring it right back." That, or "Al Bringham's right pack".

Lip-reading wasn't an exact science, especially with a concussion.

By the time he returned it, she was sitting up, bracing herself against the wall of the tunnel, not looking at Scofield's body. "There, not a scratch."

Schmidt glared at him. "Who _are_ you? How can you do all...that?"

"Anthony Masters, Agent of SHIELD." He held the metal disc out. "I'm read in on BROOKLYN BLUE."

"I _told_ Nick-" Schmidt yanked her shield back, then closed her eyes, counted to ten, and said "Second question."

"Oh, that?" He thought for a moment, as he pulled her to her feet. "I'm...gifted."

-/-

Moira Vahlen is having such a wonderful dream.

She had been taking a nap near the Beacon, as usual, when a Voice spoke to her. It was warm and friendly, and exerted barely any pressure on her mind. It is barely any louder than a whisper.

She stands.

Someone says something to her.

She smiles as she looks at Perrotta. Then she boils his brain in his skull. It's easy, with the Voice in her ear. And this is a dream, after all.

-/-

"Sir, you need to see this!"

"What _now_?" Bradford growled, as his headache got just a little bit worse.

-/-

Her clothes have burned off again, but she doesn't care. After all, it's not as if she's about to be called to the head of the class.

The door is recalcitrant, refusing to yield to her access codes. She looks at the camera, and makes a tut-tutting noise, then proceeds to burn her way through a foot of metal.

-/-

"People are reporting flames all over her, but they're not showing up on the cameras, though the heat is. The sensors back it up."

"Must be some sort of psi-effect." Bradford's lips narrowed. "Unfortunately, it's not like we can just ask Doctor Va-" He stopped dead.

"Sir?"

"Give me her route. Where's she headed?"

The tech brought up a map. "Right for us."

"Is there a clear path from Research?"

"Yes, but-oh. Calling him now."

-/-

They use flashbangs. The Voice wraps around her, like a serpent, and she bats them aside. Grenades are detonated in midair. The lasers and bullets veer away from her at the last half-second. Sonics cannot touch her. Someone brings up a plasma rifle, and she makes it go boom before they even aim.

And they keep yelling at her, trying to get her to stop. She mocks them, making faces and going "bluh bluh" right back. She giggles. This was so much fun! Just like those other dreams where she heard the Voice.

And then, as she passes one particular body, something gets through to her, through the flames and the distortion field.

The smell.

She _never_ dreamed about the smell.

The Voice's gentle pressure becomes a massive weight, the almost-whispers become commands, and locked in her own mind, Vahlen started to scream.

-/-

Team Daisy had run into Team Frost (any team Emma would deign to join would have to become Team Frost), which consisted of Emma, Vanko in one of her suits, and a few stragglers, some of which Daisy actually recognized, like Caitlyn or that curly-haired Scottish guy she saw sometimes. There had been a certain amount of pointing guns at each other, and Daisy _kinda_ remembered yelling something about being the subject of a "very aggressive downsizing campaign!"

Right now, the Scotsman was trying to hack into a maintenance panel near the hangar, and Daisy was tapping her foot. The longer they stood there, the higher the chance someone hostile would find them. Or someone friendly with an itchy trigger finger.

It was getting harder to tell the difference.

"Do you actually know how to use that thing?" Daisy said.

Frost glanced down at the shotgun she held. The bandolier and gunbelt looked odd on her thin frame, like seeing the Queen of England in a Packers jersey.

"Massachusetts Under-18s skeet-shooting finalist, three years running." She sounded slightly proud of herself.

"Isn't that a little Red State?"

"It was something to do that wasn't riding horses. Or the stableboy."

Wanda broke in. "Didn't you say 'under-18s'?"

"Yes."

The Frenchwoman blushed.

"Got it," called the Scottish guy.

The cameras in the hangar showed - in addition to all the bodies - that Viper team had set up perfectly. Their heavy was behind an emplaced minigun with angles on all the hangar entrances, and the rest of the team was on the catwalks.

"Isn't Sitznski supposed to be on medical leave?" someone asked.

Daisy pointed to the Scotsman's tablet. "So is Rollins, and he looks fine. And if they've been working with the ETs, maybe the aliens gave him some upgrades."

"So what's the plan?" someone else asked.

Daisy looked around.

Everyone was looking at her.

"Wha-_seriously_?"

-/-

The hangar lights went out.

"Glasses, ladies and gentlemen," Leighton said.

By the time Blanche got her night vision goggles on, Vanko's suit had walked into the room.

Someone swore over the radio.

The suit looked around at Viper, marking their positions.

"She's mine," rasped Rollins.

"Jack-"

"D-back, _relax_. I got this."

"Do you?" said Vanko. She had turned her speakers up, so Viper winced every time she spoke, but not Jack. He walked right up to her, cocked back his fist.

"_Please_. Give it your best shot."

Rollins proceeded to punch the suit into the side of a Quinjet, and Viper threw the anti-psi grenades at the others, who had thought they were being sneaky.

Not _nearly_ sneaky enough.

Johnson, the princess, and Frenchie all collapsed, and the others tried to drag them away. Which was amusing to Blanche, on account of Viper having sabotaged the hangar door. Also, seeing that skinny Scottish scientist guy trying to haul Emma along was just plain funny.

"Let 'em go in the Quinjet," Leighton said softly. "Ain't like they're gettin' far."

Rollins was actually beating the suit, ripping away the armor with barely any effort.

Maybe they could fix her arms. Maybe make them better.

"_Hail HYDRA_," she whispered.

Then Vanko's _second_ suit joined the brawl.

Rollins could take on one suit, but two was too much to handle. And her team couldn't fire on the suit without hitting him.

"Hey, Asset?" Leighton said. "Time to come off the bench."

"_Finally._"

The woman that stepped out of the back of one of the Quinjets could've been from just about anywhere in the world. Her real name was on a need-to-know basis, her skin was brown, and she wore a black outfit with a bunch of MOLLE straps. By contrast, she looked like she didn't get enough sleep, and her black hair was tangled, which apparently didn't bother her one bit.

"_Let's get ready to ruuumble!_"

And with that, she darted across the room and laid into the second suit.

It was a sight to behold. A tiny little woman, breaking down an armored battlesuit. If Vanko shot, she dodged. The punches just kind of...slid off her, and if Blanche squinted, it looked like she was shimmering red.

And when she attacked-

Well, she was tearing into Vanko with every swipe. Blanche recognized the good ol' knife fighter's technique, swipe, don't stab. Not that she was using an actual knife. There were more of those shimmers around her hands, and a manic grin on her face. She even _headbutted_ Vanko once, and _that_ cut through the armor.

One of the Quinjets flared to life, its thrusters lighting up the hangar.

Wait, what? What were they-

The 'jet's missiles fired, blowing a hole in the hangar door.

"They're takin' off, and nothin' we've got can even scratch the paint!" Leighton snarled. "Y'all need to quit your two-step and stop 'em!"

Rollins and the Asset broke and ran, only to have glowing coils of wire wrap around their waists and pull them back to their respective dance partners.

"No!" said the Asset. Jack didn't say anything, just tried to burn through the robot's grip.

Vanko's suits just held them tighter. "_Salyut_," they said, and then exploded.

-/-

Mission Control was very busy. They were trying to deal with the breakthrough in the Hangar, and some kind of cyborg super-soldier at the back door, Vahlen apparently going _nuts_, and now the aliens were in the maintenance tunnels, and for all Bradford knew, they had Infiltrators slithering up the toilet bend, wearing some kind of high-tech alien snorkel.

He was seriously considering a career change.

Y'know, if they survived.

"This is Schmidt," said the loudspeaker. Most of the people in Mission Control looked up. Bradford felt something clench, low in his gut. He had a very intuitive gut, sometimes.

"I'm very proud of what you've done today, but this is not a tenable situation. I am therefore ordering..." There was a pause, as if Paula had trouble getting the words out. "I am ordering the activation of Evacuation Plan Whiskey. XCOM, we are..." Another pause. "_Leaving_. Schmidt out."

No one looked at Bradford. No one noticed his set jaw, the clenched fists, the line of tension in the muscles of his neck, and, perhaps, the slight wetness in his eyes as he blinked faster for a few seconds.

Or at least, no one was willing to admit it later.

"What are you _waiting_ for, people?" he barked. "You heard the lady! _Move like you got a purpose!_"

-/-

Schmidt stared at the radio in her hand.

"Are you sure that was the right choice, ma'am?" Masters asked.

His boss looked up, and then looked at the little group of stragglers - soldiers and technical staff and a drone or two- she had drawn to her like iron filings toward a magnet. No one had asked her about the shield on her back, though anyone who hadn't recognized it was doubtless soon informed.

She made eye contact with Stark, who was checking over one of their repulsor rifles, then back at Masters.

"No," she said. "Not really. But it's the logical play."

"Logical?"

She sighed, and slipped into college lecturer mode. "A lot of the time in war, you ended up taking the most casualties when your side broke and ran away, when the enemy could chase you down and take your men out without opposition. Everything in me is saying we should make a stand. Everything but my better judgement."

"Wait, wait, I know this one. You pretend to run away, and then you turn around and fire arrows when the bad guys chase. It's called a...parting shot?"

"Or a Parthian Shot, that's right."

"Did you have something in mind?"

"Oh _yes_." And suddenly, she smiled.

Masters fought the sudden urge to step back.

"Why do you think I chose this location? It'll be a real retreat, though."

"Let me guess; you activate the self-destruct sequence, and bury 'em."

"Like the Pharohs of old?" She stood, abruptly, and everyone looked at her. "I was thinking more _Biblical_. Let's move."

-/-

"Got it!" May called.

She yanked the transponder box out of the truck's guts, and tossed it to the floor of the vehicle bay. Scrambling into the driver's seat, she turned the key, and yelled over her shoulder "Come on!"

Still facing the doorway they had came through, Irene backed onto the truck's cargo section, and tapped on the hood. "Have you given any thought to how we're going to get past the roadblock they probably have out there?"

"Perhaps we can be of assistance."

And then three Asgardians appeared from thin air, right next to the car.

They didn't seem particularly worried by the gun (and two repulsors) pointed in their faces.

"How do we know we can trust you?"

"Well," said the woman with the air of a librarian, "You're not dead."

"Who's that?" said Magnhild.

Striding towards the car was a man in black, heedless of the unconscious bodies around him. Shaggy, brown hair, black facepaint. The intercom was saying something about an "asset", but Irene didn't hear it, on account of her HUD telling her that the man's left arm was made of metal.

He raised his grenade launcher.

"_Bucky!_" Irene yelled.

And the Winter Soldier hesitated. Just long enough, in fact, for Magnhild to reach out and take hold of his spinal cord, at which point he dropped like a puppet without its strings.

"Get in!" Irene commanded.

They did. Bjarke joined her in the cargo section, and grasped the frame of the truck, as did Ragna. Irene felt a faint tingle, like static electricity.

"I am opening the external doors," Vision said.

Seconds later, the truck roared out onto the access road, swerved off into the dirt, and immediately started taking fire.

"Ragna," said Bjarke calmly, as the bullets pinged off his shielding spell. "Did you remember to account for dust in your cloak?"

"Ah...give me a second."

"We don't _have_ one!" May pointed at the helicopter over the road, which was already swinging toward their position.

The chest aperture on Irene's suit opened, and her HUD followed her gaze and targeted the tail rotor. "Relax. I got this."

-/-

They found Kelda near the Isabel's Diner, staring at a dead man, the air tasting of ozone. When Bjarke touched her shoulder, she looked up with eyes reddened by tears.

They had come for Bill, she explained, hoping to hold him as a hostage. They had used some sort of strange grenade, and seemed surprised that it had no effect on her.

Irene picked up the purple-banded cylinder, tossed it in the back of the truck. And, what the heck, they needed all the weapons they could use. She began to police the rest of the equipment as well.

May simply looked around at the frozen corpses. And the ones struck by lightning. And the ice spears. A handful had actually been cut down by Kelda's guards before they succumbed to weight of numbers and the assailants' advanced weaponry.

"I'll bet they were," was all she said.

Irene knelt. The guard had died from what looked exactly like plasma burns, and the suit's HUD informed her that he was slightly more radioactive in that area. Yep, that was plasma. No wonder the cops had stayed away.

"Lady Kelda? We must away," said the massive Asgardian.

She nodded, blinking, and walked over to the car, taking one last look at Bill's body.

"If I had not..." she said slowly. "If I had not warned you through the scrying orb, if I had simply acted, _then_-"

"_Don't_," said May. "Trust me."

Kelda nodded, and got into the car.

Irene took one last look at the scene. Well, that was done with. Now to evade the combined apparatus of the most powerful intelligence agency on Earth.

Someone tapped on her shoulder.

"Who's 'Bucky'?" May said.

-/-


	27. 24 Remember me for centuries

On the Quinjet, Wanda stared at the hatch as they came up to speed.

Her headache didn't seem to matter much right now.

"Hey," said the curly-haired Scot. "I'm sure she'll be-"

There was the sound of an explosion.

"I'll just...go look for the transponder."

The plane went to takeoff power, and got airborne, climbing to a height that would, hopefully, keep them off the radar.

The Frenchwoman took a deep breath, turned away from the rear hatch, made her way forward, and collapsed into the copilot seat.

"You alright?" Daisy asked. She had found a pair of sunglasses somewhere.

"Not...exactly."

"She's fine," Emma said, from _right behind her_. Wanda jumped.

"How do you _do_ that?" Daisy said. "Seriously, _how_? I'm a trained _spy_ and I'm not as sneaky as you!"

"Try living with my mother for 18 years. Does _that_ blinking light mean anything?"

"Hmm? Oh, we're being signaled." Daisy pressed a button. "Johnson speaking."

"Look left," someone with a Russian accent said.

Wanda's face lit up.

Daisy magnified the image from the portside window. There were clouds, and glimpses of something silver-

"Rumors of my demise have been greatly exaggerated," Vanko said.

Wanda stared. "They were _both_ drones?" She whirled on Emma. "Did _you_ know?"

"Did I forget to mention that?" said the Bostonian innocently. "Whoops."

-/-

XCOM's server room was cool and dark, with thousands of what Masters had once seen called "blinkenlights" on the black monoliths. The mood was slightly spoiled for him by the brightly coloured cables coming out of the servers.

"Ma'am, we need to get moving," he urged. "If you wanted your private emails deleted, you should've worried about that earlier."

Schmidt half-turned, a half-smile on her lips. "Watch the door."

He kept looking over his shoulder as she walked up the aisles, a finger raised to count them. Then she turned to the side, and vanished.

The hairs on Masters' neck tried to stand up. It wasn't anything in particular, it was just the...general threat.

"Package secured," said his boss, from _right next to him_, and he jumped. She was holding a silvery object about the size of a football.

Or, given that it had a face, it was about the size of a head.

"What...what _is_ that thing?"

"Guess," it said, in Jocasta's voice, and Masters jumped again.

Schmidt's brow furrowed. "Wait. I can't call both you and the fork Jocasta."

"Janet," said the speakers in the ceiling, again in Jocasta's voice.

"Ma'am, what's going _on_ here? This is _nothing_ I was ever briefed on."

"Jo backed up all the critical data, and she'll be coming with us. Her little sister is going to mind the shop."

"I prefer 'going down with the ship'," Janet opined.

Masters nodded. "Why 'Janet'?"

There was a brief, awkward pause.

"That's classified, agent" Schmidt said. "Let's go find you some backup."

-/-

Marceau had tried, really he did.

He had seen what the fire did to the actual soldiers, how it curled around the gaps in their armor and pried them open like clams.

They had sent Rovers, which proved no more effective. Even particle weapons were deconstructed before they could fire.

And so, Marceau had made a choice. He went out himself, at Bradford's request, to see if he could reach her, if he could talk to her.

At which point she had forced him to his knees and froze his body in place.

His head hurt. Not like the usual throbbing or sharp stabs. More like burning.

"Pierre Gabriel Marceau, age 39, Belgium," said the burning woman. "Your first wife left you, your second was in a car accident, and you were afraid to make that mistake a third time. And then you met me."

Her face wasn't moving, really. Just her lips, and her eyes.

_You're...you're not her! You're not Moira!_

"We are an improvement. You? You do not earn more. You are not her intellectual superior. You do not meet median standards of physical attractiveness. You have nothing to offer her but..._love_."

It felt like Marceau's head was on fire. He tried to spit out a response, but his tongue was a cinder. He could still see well enough to tell how the thing in Moira's body was pulling up one side of her mouth, like it was trying to imitate a smile by description.

Perhaps it was.

"Amusing," it said, and killed him.

-/-

"I kind of thought it'd be bigger," Morse said.

The compartment the three of them were looking into was basically a very large closet, complete with crates. The plane's actual escape pod was guarded, as was the rear ramp and all the standard entrances, forcing them to...improvise.

Morse checked the panel near the door. "Says it's near the weight limit for a drop."

"Can we move the boxes out?" Fury asked.

"I don't think we have enough time," Wilson said, near the door to the hallway they were all in. "I can hear the little heads getting closer."

"Heads?" Natasha asked.

"_Cut off one head, two more will take it's place_," Fury and Wilson chanted. Well, more like mumbled, in Fury's case.

"Can't we dump them in-flight? Depressurize the compartment?"

"Ah...no," The loading entrance is sealed."

Wilson sighed. "We'll just have to risk it. Morse, get Fury in there."

Natasha Romanoff had been born in Russia, and started training as a spy before most American girls got their driver's licenses, in a program that had been honed to near-perfection since WW2. That training had been supplemented by SHIELD after she deserted the sinking Soviet ship, and she was a veteran of more military, paramilitary, and espionage operations than most operators would ever experience. She spoke several languages, knew as many martial arts, and had been trained to pay attention _all the time_.

Later on, she wasn't sure which was more embarrassing; the part where Wilson got the drop on her and shoved her into the compartment, or the fact that he managed to cop a feel while doing so.

By the time she recovered, the door was sealed.

"Wade, what are you _doing_?"

"Buying you some time. I'm not going to risk the life of the woman I love because I couldn't wait for the next bus."

"You don't love me. We barely know each other. You just want to get into my pants if you survive, don't you?"

Wade grinned. "Well, at least it gives me something to look forward to." And he pushed the button.

A few hundred feet down, once they were clear of the Bus' jamming field, Fury asked for Morse's phone, dialed a number, and said "Activate the Poison Pill contingency." Beat. "Yes, I'm sure."

"Now," said Morse, "I'm just a lowly Level 6 agent, but what was that?"

"Every connected computer SHIELD has is being overwritten with incorrect data," Romanoff said.

They staggered as the retro-rockets triggered, slowing the compartment's descent.

"That'll take months, maybe _years_, for them to fix. But aren't you planning to go back to SHIELD?"

The Director and more senior agent looked at each other, and the latter said "Oh, I know a palace coup when I see one."

They all caught themselves, again, as the chute deployed.

"Besides, we have backups." Fury twisted, to look at the crate he was leaning on. "What's in these, anyway? What did Wilson sacrifice himself for?"

Romanoff peered at the manifest. "Uh...parachutes."

-/-

XCOM's mechanical bay was big and active, even when it wasn't. Metal and plastic waited to spring into action and the input of a command, at the push of a button. It felt _busy_, it felt _industrial_, it felt _purposeful_.

Peterson, standing in the middle of the bodies of XCOM's dead troops, felt right at home.

"Beachhead secured," said the shaven-headed African-American. "Come on down."

"Are you sure about that?"

The woman behind him, as far as any of his sensors could tell, simply hadn't been there until she announced her presence. She was naked, which _Mike_ would've normally found distracting, but first of all he was on the job, and secondly, she was on fire.

He switched his X-Ray eye on, and then immediately shut it off. _Ow_. What _was_ she?

"I-" he said.

"Michael Peterson. 42. One son."

"I don't have a son."

"Oh, my mistake."

Some invisible force seized him and hurled him against something hard, something that dug into his back. Even his enhanced strength couldn't break free.

The woman who was on fire leaned on him with one arm.

"Your...bosses, or partners, or whoever, mind-controlled me, killed people I _know_, killed my _best friend_, and _**used me as the murder weapon**__!_"

She was shouting now, and Mike tried to lean away. It was like staring into a blast furnace. Her accent kept switching from German to...Texas?

"I was _inside_ him, when then used me. I _felt_ him as he died. Again." A titter. "Watched him burn as I touched his face. **Just like this**."

Mike didn't flinch, just deadened the pain. The Extremis regen kicked in as soon as she took her hand away.

"That's when I broke free, and decided turnabout was fair play. I felt that you were about to call for backup, and decided to make you all **suffer** like you've been doing to my friends."

Vahlen's profile had said she was quiet and taciturn, not chatty. She never broke eye contact, not even once.

"Don't worry. I'll wait from them all to show up so you have a sporting chance."

She put a finger to her lips, and stage-whispered "_don't spoil the surprise!_" before vanishing.

Mike listened to the strike team rappelling down the shaft, trying to make contact with him over the radio. He tried to move, to cry out, to do anything at all, and he just..._couldn't_.

The room didn't seem so welcoming anymore.

-/-

The panic room wasn't exactly cheery. It was buried even farther underground than the rest of the base, and the walls were a dull, institutional grey.

Along one wall, there were round hatches, much like the those found throughout the base. Beyond those opened doors, however, were not the usual hall or room, but a short compartment with benches along the sides.

The Director stood near one of the hatches in an at-ease pose. The people flowed past her like water past a rock.

Of course, sometimes water hit the rock.

"I'm leaving under protest," Tony said.

Schmidt closed her eyes briefly, as if steeling herself against anticipated pain.

"Noted, Chief Stark," she said, in her best "go _away_" tone.

Stark nodded, and left.

For about three seconds.

"Now, I don't want to question your judgment, but-"

"Stark, our hangar's overrun, we've got no air support, SHIELD is facing their own problems, Vahlen is wreaking havoc at the back door and making sounds like some sort of bird of prey _that is also on fire_, and we _literally_ have bad guys coming out of the walls." Her jaw hurt as she ground out "_I don't think this is a tenable situation_."

Stark blinked. "Just...wanted to be informed." And he left, and Schmidt relaxed, and resumed her vigil.

It was very...sterile, to listen to XCOM die.

Janet streamed updates to her. People reduced to facts and figures. Pena was having trouble too, and SHIELD...

Her clasped hands tightened, just for an instant.

Nick had got himself into trouble. _Again_.

If she closed her eyes, she could almost imagine it, almost see her people dying, being isolated and cut off. They'd never make it in time.

SHIELD was dead. XCOM was dead.

They just hadn't buried the bodies yet.

All in all, she could not remember the last time she had her rear so _thoroughly_ handed to her.

The people in the compartment saw her, standing there, quietly watching, listening. Bradford walks to her side, puts a hand on her shoulder in a gesture perhaps a little more than professional, a little more than personal. He says her name, her first name, and she puts her own hand on his as her shoulders sag.

After he leaves, she squares her shoulders. Her hand touches her face. (Of course, none of them saw what she did, exactly, and they don't like to speculate, they would say.)

She says something to her earpiece, and as best as they can piece together later, it involved the words "Azure Contingency".

Upstairs, as they learned later, massive pumps were activating, flooding rooms with water, cutting off XCOM's foes, smashing them against the walls, filling their lungs-

This meant, of course, that the wounded and still fighting troops were washed away as well. Perhaps they felt betrayed, in their last moments. Perhaps they thought it was a good death; sweet and noble.

Perhaps not.

All the people watching her knew was that she stood there for a few seconds after she gave the order. And if her jaw was a little more set than usual, her eye a little more bright, none would admit to noticing.

The airlock closed behind her. There was the sound of water rushing into tanks, and she looked around.

Everyone looked at her. The silence was pregnant.

She jerked a thumb over her shoulder.

"We probably should've slapped a coat of paint in there. Brighten it up a little."

Beat. Nobody laughed.

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Triton mini-subs. Can you believe SHIELD just had these lying around?" She moved forward, taking the shield off of her back. "They'll take us out, under the river. We've got some time to rest, ladies and gentlemen. I suggest you take it. I'm know I will."

She sat down next to Bradford, her shield in her lap, and rested her head on his shoulder. There was another silence, this one awkward, with no one willing to address the elephant in the room. Well, elephants. It would take someone with a stunning disregard for tact.

"So," said Tony. "How long has this been going on?"

Schmidt didn't open her eyes. "Pardon me?"

"The fraternization." She could imagine his smirk. "It's against regs. What would Grandpa say?

Her eyes opened. "_What?_"

"Your Grandfather," Tony enunciated. "Captain America. He was a real spit-and-polish, follow the rules guy, if I remember the home movies they made. Course, he wouldn't be the first good, upstanding man to leave his girl back home a little something to remember him by."

You could almost feel the other XCOM personnel drawing away from him, like he had just announced "hey, I have the Bubonic Plague!"

They could feel the Triton undocking from its moorings, the slight tilt before it leveled.

"Paula-" Bradford said.

"No, it's okay." To Stark; "What makes you think that I'm his granddaughter?"

"It all makes sense. You share his looks. I don't know if being a good leader is genetic, but you got it. You clearly aren't the factory model when it comes to actual fighting. You're not even next year's hot rod. Plus, there's the tiny little fact that _you have his shield_."

Schmidt looked down. "How can you tell? All the paint got scraped off. To answer your question-" The Director grabbed Bradford's hand with her own, and held it without breaking eye contact. "About five seconds. If you mean in general?" A one-shouldered shrug. "The moment I met him, I guess." A fierce grin. "I love a man in uniform."

Even Tony was taken aback. Momentarily.

"Stop me if you've heard this one," he said, with increasing confidence." There's a soldier with a woman back home. Just before he goes on the big mission, he pays a visit to his best girl. Maybe they secretly got married first, I dunno. But Johnny never comes marching home again, and nine months later, he has a bouncing baby girl. Except that the US doesn't allow women in combat, and won't for, what, three generations? So they just keep a close eye on her and her children."

Schmidt's grip tightened. "Interesting theory."

"Maybe it was a guy, and he didn't want to fight. Maybe they used them in covert ops. Maybe something else happened. Point is, at some point, they find Cap's body, or at least just his shield, and give it to you, because who better to have it than his grandkid, right?" He paused for breath. "Tell me I'm wrong."

The Director's lips turned up at the corners.

"Well," she said. "Not _exactly_."

She stood, released her number two, and made her way to the pilot's console. "We need to find someplace with a video camera, a computer, and Internet access."

"I am right _here_," Jocasta groused.

"Oh. Right. Then we need a large room, a few lamps, and a dimmer switch. Volunteers only. Or you can wear masks. Oh, and it's not your fault, Stark, you were working from incomplete premises."

"What are you up to?" Bradford said.

Paula Schmidt smiled like a shark. "Truth. Propaganda. Winning hearts and minds. Home movies." She shrugged. "Most importantly? _Resurrection_."

-/-

Kirsten was worried.

It had been a few hours, and while the holding room was partially soundproofed, she knew the sound of gunshots when she heard them. Faintly, through the bulletproof glass on the door.

Presently, the battle died down, and there was quiet.

She scurried back to her bed and waited. Could they see her hands shake? She clenched her fists, faced away from the door. Count to four, inhale. Count to four, exha-

The door creaked open. Fancy high-tech spy agency couldn't afford a little oil. Or maybe that was deliberate.

Four men walked in, one ahead of the other three. The leftovers took up guard positions to either side of the spokesman, guns drawn. They were remarkably nondescript. The blond leader, by contrast, seemed to be living in the past.

Specifically, about 1998 or so.

Why was he smiling like that?

"What...what happened? What's going on?"

Aldrich Killian grinned even wider.

-/-

The video opens on a darkened room. Slowly, a light comes up, revealing a blonde, blue-eyed woman sitting in a chair. Indistinct shapes are visible behind her.

She looks tired.

"You're probably familiar with certain rumors. Rumors of an organization dedicated to fighting the alien threat, a threat that our leaders would tell you is now over, that it was all a misunderstanding. They're lying, but that's only because the aliens are making them.

"I was the lady who ran that operation. We took some of the finest soldiers in the world, and honed them into a blade. A sword to SHIELD's, well, shield."

The joke seems to amuse you.

"Now, I will admit we've been quiet lately. Lost a few battles, got kicked out by the new landlords. But we haven't lost the war."

She stands.

"There were some World War 2 newsreels. Those were fake, as many people have suspected. Dramatizations of starring a good man named John Walker. Partially to be a decoy, and partially because...the world back then just wasn't ready for the truth."

The woman stands, and reaches to her right. A round object is passed to her by someone out-of-shot. It is painted in concentric bands of red and white, the center a blue circle filled with a white star.

She smiles like someone sharing a secret. Which she is.

"But I think you're ready now."

She slips the shield onto her arm like she was born with it there.

"My name is Stephanie Rogers. They used to call me Captain America."

Behind her, the lights come on, revealing rows and rows of people. In the front are a red-haired woman in a lab coat, a man in a commando sweater with the bearing of a hawk, and one legally dead billionaire.

Rogers' eyes burn with resolve.

"And we have not yet begun to fight."

Video ends.

-/-

In an unregarded conference room, an emblem burned.

It was a stylized, proud eagle on a white, circular field.

Above the emblem were the words **STRATEGIC HOMELAND INTERVENTION ESPIONAGE AND LOGISTICS DIVISION**.

And below;

**VIGILO CONFIDO**.

**-H-**

**Bastille - Pompeii **

**Didn't see that coming?**: Saved Nick Fury.

**END ARC 2**


End file.
